


Slipped Inside Your Right Back Pocket

by compo67



Series: Back Pocket Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 350lb Jensen, Alpha Jensen, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Biting, Bottom Jared, Chubby Jensen, Coming Untouched, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Inspired by Music, Islands, Knotting, Light Angst, M/M, Marking, New York City, Omega Jared, Rough Sex, Scent Marking, Sequel pending, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Song Lyrics, Top Jensen, spoiled Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 41,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7345234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared is a spoiled, pampered, Manhattan brat. His problems range from deciding which pair of Gucci shoes to wear to creating seating arrangements for dinner parties. He’s had the privilege of inheriting an incredible talent from his incredible aunt: singing. </p><p>Except, at the debut party for his first album, it completely bombs. </p><p>After a page six worthy tantrum, and under the advisement of his aunt, Jared flies to a remote island on the Pacific for a ‘spiritual and creative treatment program.’ He expected pool boys and marble whirlpool tubs. </p><p>What he gets are hikes into the wilderness that cause sunburns and a myriad of other unspeakable atrocities. And the assistant village captain, Jensen, who, as a leader of people, doesn’t own a single pair of dress shoes or silk shirts. If Jared can last six weeks on the island, his aunt will produce an amended album. If he comes home early, he’ll have to navigate the music industry on his own. </p><p>Featuring Cher, Filipino moms who don’t take no for an answer when it comes to food, and songs by kd lang, Nathaniel Rateliff, Lady Gaga, Sturgill Simpson, and Birdy. Based on the anime and manga Barakamon. </p><p>[COMPLETE: 07/31/16]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More than a few comments have made this necessary to say: YES, there is fat!Jensen in this fic. He's 386 lbs. Deal with it or read another fic. If you post fatphobic comments, I will delete you. Don't post negative shit here, on the fic you read for *free*. Be respectful. Don't like, don't read, and certainly don't waste your time or mine by commenting. 
> 
> I wrote Jensen as a larger person because I wanted to challenge your perceptions. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to write a fat character who was confident, attractive, and charming. 
> 
> THIS FIC IS FINISHED! YAY! Thank you all for your patience while the second half was under construction. There were lots of additions, so I suggest reading on from Chapter 23. Thank you again! <3 Catch you in the sequel!
> 
>  
> 
> /cries everywhere/ thank you to my extraordinary betas and artist. they are simply the best. shout outs to T, J, and G for the epic help and patience at the 11th hour. And thank you to my fabulous artist samscherrycake, who chose me and made the most beautiful art for this fic. <3

** **

 

 **Prologue** :

In the 1920’s, Lois Bancroft Long worked as a writer for _The New Yorker_.

Detailing her nightly adventures in debauchery, Lois wrote under the pseudonym Lipstick. But in the right circles, it wasn’t much of a stretch to figure out the woman under the pen name. Lois frequently waltzed into the office at four in the morning—a mess of the previous evening’s attire, makeup, and booze. Her editor thought she was immodest and wild. There was never any problem with Lois joining in on the nightlife her readers devoured. Her articles were witty, a tad snobby, and unapologetically sharp.

Lois knew all the right people and all the right liquor. There was no shortage of clubs open until seven in the morning or later. The problem was _how_ those clubs were open until seven in the morning or later. Some clubs pulled it off; most clubs didn’t seem to care that they were the last stops on any late night romps and made no effort to create an uplifting atmosphere for their patrons.

Drunk as any man, Lois witnessed everything the Jazz Age had to offer: speakeasies, raids, Duke Ellington, racist cops, club owners, and patrons, and escalating alcoholism. She understood what it meant to pace her drinks—and often completely threw that information out of the window. More than once, she forgot the key to her cubicle, and instead opted for climbing the walls of it to get in. Never mind who saw her leggings or whatever her already short dress could reveal. She’d left a bottle of something _good_ in there the day before.

Sex, booze, and jazz.

Vassar and her minister father couldn’t hold her down.

“I like music, informality, and gaiety,” she proclaimed.

The 300. The El Fey. Intime. Chumley’s. The Stork. Connie’s. The Spider’s Web. Small’s Paradise. And of course, The Cotton Club. Neighborhood by neighborhood, Lois had access to it all. She was the flapper, the liberated woman, and the young person to be.

Nightlife loved her. And she loved it.

Jared relates to that love.

Club Intime, on West 54th Street in Midtown, was a regular stop on Lois’ tipsy route through New York City. A shout from Carnegie Hall and a holler from Broadway, it’s still the best out of all the cocktail dens, dance floors, and dive bars anywhere. All sorts pass through Intime, making it not only an attractive place to be but an interesting one as well.

Oh sure, there’s fuck all to do in Midtown. Tourist shit and that stuff—Times Square, Hell’s Kitchen, the Empire State Building… the actual Broadway Theatre and Carnegie Hall. But who the fuck cares about that in New York anymore? Besides actual tourists from the middle of fucking nowhere?

Intime has the hottest bartenders and the best history. Society men enjoyed the place because it was a natural selection once they were done frequenting the brothel a skip and a hop away.

It isn’t garish, like so many newer places, and it isn’t boring, like so many old places. Intimate, plush, red velvet booths form a honeycomb where the lighting is dark enough for fun to take place. Heavy, Persian rugs provide opulence; exposed, rustic brick walls offer up a subtle reminder that unless the man buying the drink can afford to live in Manhattan, he’s not worth talking to for longer than it takes to sip the liquor.

There were no shortage of options in finding a space for this soiree. Jared had his pick. Lindy often reminded him of that. But in the end, it had to be here at Intime. Here, where the capacity for private parties holds steady at ninety—just enough for all the right producers, executives, PR suits, and hangers on to keep things entertaining.

Over in the corner, Jared recognizes N.K., one of the most prominent audio engineers in the New York music scene. Not too far away sits Alita, a transplant from Stockholm conquering the industry one Manolo heel at a time. There’s Jordan from TMZ, an obnoxious addition to the guest list, but entirely necessary since anyone who is anyone has had at least one run-in with TMZ. He’s unsuccessfully hitting on Sondi, who seems to have gotten dressed in the dark yet again. Stripes with polka dots? Please.

All of these people matter in their own way. Like pieces in a mandatory puzzle. These people and their assistants—and in some cases, their assistants’ assistants—represent The Next Big Thing. Yes, somewhere around here Demi Lovato is telling that terribly paced story about her at a pool party in Vegas last year, and yes, somewhere in a booth Zayn is more than likely wooing someone with promises of skipping out of this and going to Tanner’s down the block. Whatever. Let him get bounced at Tanner’s. He looks like he’s fourteen years old. What kind of respectable person dates someone who looks like they should still be shopping in the kids’ section at Barney’s?

The dudes from twenty one pilots walk past, drinks in their hands, eyes on a small gathering of models Jared knows from his short time doing shoots for H&M.

Little do the dudes know, Tove Lo has already made her way there, prepping the models for the ultimate takedown of any male stupid enough to try—just try—approaching them.

But none of these people are who Jared searches for.

They aren’t even in the same solar system of importance.

“No one’s seen her,” Lindy sighs, exasperated by his search, aided by a nearly finished old fashioned. Lindy looks and drinks like Elijah Wood, except he doesn’t look like a hobbit. Not that much, anyway. He’s not tall, but Jared’s dated enough tall men. Lindy’s sharp and not easily intimidated by names or PR assistants. Those are good qualities to have in Manhattan.

“Did you look for Jeffrey?” Jared takes a sip from Lindy’s glass. Old fashioneds are not his drink—too plain, too 1800’s—but the bartenders at Intime pulled it off to make this one drinkable.

Rolling his eyes, Lindy sets his drink down on the nearest table, abandoning it despite it being half full. “You know I hate it when you do that. I can’t stand sharing the same glass.”

“I sucked your cock last night.”

“Your mouth on my genitals isn’t anything to be proud of these days, Jared.”

“Fine. No blowjob tonight.”

“I’m only saying…” He is not, but fine. “...that one’s mouth on one’s genitals is different than one’s mouth on one’s glass.”

Turning away from Lindy, Jared sniffs. “You’ve been speaking to Ramona again. Don’t think I’ve forgotten her third person period. If you start doing that, we’re toast.”

Various people flit by with congratulations and business cards. N.K. has yet to circle by, but Jared doesn’t entirely care about that right now. He has Lindy to deal with the details and people around them. Lindy never turns down a business card. Or an invitation. One of the Calvin Klein boys saunters by, his eyes capable of expressing things that would make any hardened porn star blush. Jared’s seen the kid in a few spreads, but has no desire to spread him.

“You’re rambling,” Lindy snips, fixing Jared’s black, silk, Brooks Brothers tie. It’s the centerpiece of his outfit--handmade, embellished with glass beads set in a scribble pattern. Nothing less than architectural jewelry. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Must you leave?” The issue isn’t mingling. This is his party. But he did not spend forty-five minutes on stage in front of these people to go without his aunt’s opinion. Organizing the party had been one small part of the evening. Effort went into making sure that the right people were in the audience at the right time. But no one, absolutely no one, was as important as his aunt.

Jared released his debut album.

After two months of work with Lindy’s connections, hours and hours of rehearsal, Jared finally did it.

Everyone around him said it was wonderful. Amazing. Simply marvelous.

“It’s _your_ release party.” Disappearing into the crowd, Lindy chases after the Calvin Klein distraction. He’s right. Jared knows he’s right. But without Lindy, he’s left to fend off people by himself, smiling and shaking hands, pretending to notice names and faces. It isn’t difficult to spot his aunt in a crowd.

She’s Cher.

Garnet walls, daffodil lighting, and the sumptuous, dark cabinetry of the bar provide an environment as opulent as its patrons.

Cher cuts through everything.

People, decor, atmosphere, ambiance.

All of Intime falls to the spell set upon them by her arrival to the lounge area. Her outfit commands attention, but it’s her composure and presence that maintains it. Exquisite eyes tipped in obsidian efficiently scan the space. Jared had seen her for two minutes backstage, dressed in a different outfit. From an emerald ensemble, she had transformed into a glittery silver jumpsuit, complete with a bold, blonde wig. She shines like a gem, in the center of everything,

Impeccable in her high-heeled step, Cher glides through Intime. Jeffrey follows, close but never an intrusion in her desired path. Nothing and no one has slipped past Jeffrey in the past twenty years. The figure he cuts against his client convinces people to gradually return to their own conversations. If Cher wants to talk to them, she will, on her own time.

Lois would have dedicated an entire book to his aunt.

This is it. This is the moment. The Moment.

Hadn’t he prepared for this? Hadn’t he dreamed of what it would be like to have his aunt Cher tell him he was worthy of carrying on her legacy?

She won’t start with any bullcrap or stiff formalities, she will immediately make her approval known. He’d dreamt of it more than once. His sound will be lauded as refreshing, revolutionary, resonant, and resplendent. There would only be one place for him now--a prized residency in Vegas.

Cher reaches out for Jared.

One smooth, cool, jeweled hand cups his cheek.

Yes dances on the tip of Jared’s tongue. Yes--he’s ready to follow in her footsteps. Yes--he’s fully prepared to leave this life behind and begin his journey as a pop-star extraordinaire. Yes--

Cher speaks.

“How could this have happened?”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Life is cruel.

There isn’t wi-fi in this shitty airport.

The curb proves just as deserted and desolate as the airport. Jared loathes traveling--especially flying--but he didn’t even have an annoying seatmate to snap at on the last leg of his fourteen hour journey. It was seven hours from New York City to Los Angeles, and then seven hours after _that_ on a rickety charter plane where he was the sole passenger. There weren’t any flight attendants. No soda was offered to him, no proper instructions announced on how to turn his seat into a floatation device. Nothing.

Standing at the curb, Jared experiences more nothing.

Not even a fucking tumbleweed appears to taunt him. This entire island looks like Jared’s spam folder--dismal and ultimately disappointing. From here to the next six weeks of his life it’s all F@CK MY PUSSY & LET ME EAT UR C#CK AFTER.

If anyone knows of an island to send their nephews to for a spiritual and creative treatment program, it’s Cher. Except, Jared was envisioning something like a resort, a marble and pool boy paradise complete with mojitos on the hour every hour to boost his inspiration. Six weeks of _that_ type of spiritual and whatever stuff he could accept, even perhaps be enthusiastic about. But to be shuffled off to this place? What kind of island doesn’t have wi-fi available in its airport? What kind of airport only has one landing strip? And the one employee Jared saw was napping at the gate.

Although there seem to be paved roads on this glorified floating rock, what use are they if there’s not a car in sight? No taxis. No limos. Not even a Lyft driver nearby hoping to poach some business.

The road stares back at Jared with its empty and uncaring gaze.

Not a Cabana boy in sight.

This is worse than the week Le Bernardin didn’t have any Chilean sea bass on the menu.

At a speed usually reserved for individuals on crutches, a grimy, rusted pickup truck makes its underwhelming debut. The truck clatters with every rotation of its tired wheels, and looks like it’s held together by paperclips, duct tape, and good intentions.

“Hi!” The driver of this chariot to hell waves from the cab--an elderly man who looks like he should have stopped driving in 1979. “Jared, right?! Hold on!”

Where exactly would Jared be going for him to have to ‘hold on’? Is there some sort of thrilling activity to do at the airport, invisible to him at this moment, but totally possibly he might engage in? Does the truck actually have working brakes? Because from the way the old man’s hanging out of the driver’s side window with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding out a portion of his shirt like a parachute…

This is much worse than the week Le Bernardin ran out of Chilean sea bass. Much, much worse.

Surprisingly--and somewhat unfortunately--Jared doesn’t meet his demise via ancient truck running him over in a failure to properly stop. That would be way too easy. And make this whole charade too short.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” the driver of the truck as old as time belts out. He’s all smiles getting out of his truck--probably because he didn’t have to use the jaws of life--and goes right in for the worst possible thing to happen to Jared today so far: a huge, grotesquely familiar hug.

Squeaking in astonished anger and inexpressible frustration, Jared attempts to protest this behavior.

“Well, that’s a pretty sorry hug!” The Driver claps Jared on the shoulder--an action not an ounce more welcome than the hug. “Ah, it’s okay. You mainlanders are always so stiff. Is that your bag?”

Kudos from the heavens should descend at any moment to congratulate Jared from refraining to snap at this man. He hasn’t punched the guy yet for his highly inappropriate disregard of personal space, and he hasn’t said what he really, really, really wanted to say. No. This isn’t his luggage. It belongs to some other passenger waiting here in what’s practically La Guardia.

Instead, Jared opts for giving the man a look he reserves for strangers on the subway who get too close.

“Well, okay then… Let me toss that into the truck for you.”

No one _tosses_ Louis Vuitton luggage! Especially not this spring’s collection! Jared had to blow one of Lindy’s connections to get this luggage before it was released to the public. Performing oral sex on that man was worth three sets at least--the man was all grunting Neanderthal, and he kept yanking on Jared’s hair--and he’s not about to see the fruits of his efforts _tossed_ into the back of a truck bed.

“It’s fine!” Jared snaps, twisting his body to block whoever this man is. “I’ve got it. Just take me to town.”

The man hardly puts up a fight. He shrugs and laughs, opening whatever it’s called on the back of the truck bed for Jared to gently place his luggage. Hefting up his carry-on first, Jared ignores the screams echoing from his muscles. It is not at all possible that he over-packed. Gravity on this rock must be stronger than back in civilization, where people have access to wi-fi and car dealerships. He shoves his suitcase next to his carry-on, mindful of the leather, and swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.

Jared and his chauffeur look at each other for a solid minute.

“You’ll wanna hop in as well,” the man informs him, smiling without missing a beat. “Sorry, but I’ve got Buster in the front seat. You ever try getting a fourteen-year-old poodle to move off’a seat?” Jared’s expression must answer for him. “Well, take it from me, you’re better off in the bed instead of getting on Buster’s bad side. There’s some rope I brought with. Tie your luggage down.” Looking around, hands on his hips, the man nods, apparently trying to exert some kind of authority. “Alright, let’s get a going!”

Joy.

With luck, the cottage he’s renting will have a rug over the dirt floor. Jared tries not to touch anything, including the aforementioned rope. It’s covered in oil and other suspicious substances.

Somehow, the truck revs back to life, the force of its engine causing the entire body to quake. Jared sighs and flips his Ray Bans on, sitting cross-legged and resting his chin on his palm. It probably took the old man three days to get here from the village. And just watch, the truck will more than likely suffer from a heart attack on the way. Why didn’t he wear the chic little sunhat Amir gave him earlier this year? Amir brought it back from Greece, and at first, Jared was worried it made him look older than he was. But after a few outings with it, he had grown fond of the accessory, which inspired a conversation with Amir and Lindy about how they should go back to the Hamptons this summer, even if the crowds there were getting a little too familiar…

The truck jolts forward.

Jared shrieks, clinging onto his carry-on, until the truck makes a right turn and Louis Vuitton becomes a formidable enemy of premium, slate-colored leather and handcrafted handles.

“Oh, hey! The name’s Pico! You’re gonna love this place!”

Two choices had been presented to him the fateful night he released his album: spiritual and creative whatever in a cabin, somewhere in upstate Maine or a cottage on a remote island in the Pacific.

Halfway to the village, Jared’s Ray Bans fly off, lost to the road, just like his soul is lost to exile.

Freezing his ass off Maine would have been a better choice.


	3. Chapter 3

New York Fashion Week was dull last year.

Michael Kors and his set had provided some entertainment, but they were all aesthetic and no personal appeal. The ilk that ran with the Calvin Klein crowd was obnoxious as per usual, but really, what else could anyone expect from them? Just because anyone _can_ work a penis pump doesn’t mean they should. Similarly, just because anyone _can_ stuff a rolled up sock down their briefs to emphasize size doesn’t mean they should.

Models, designers, press, and celebrities paraded through every backstage gathering. The amount of perfume and hairspray in the vicinity put them all in grave danger if anyone dared to violate the venues’ no-smoking rules. Circles and cliques were as easily broken as they were forged. People who held a deep love for being seen and admired lingered near the press area; everyone else mingled. Emissaries from each clique were sent to rival groups. Bitter exchanges were made from the DKNY group to the Tommy network, one comment going so far as to say that Tommy’s latest line looked as if it belonged in a clearance bin at Sears. Yes, some people had attended with their claws out and sharpened.

Fortunately, Jared managed to remain out of the most dramatic pools of people, preferring to rub elbows with music professionals instead of those interested or involved in fashion. He had earnestly promoted his project to a number of people, name dropping only when necessary to maintain conversation.

Lindy even went to the lengths to order a few outfits for Jared. None of it was particularly satisfying, which made no sense at all.

However much NYFW left to be desired, the cottage takes the Martha Stewart gourmet cake.

Pico doesn’t seem to see the same things that Jared does. Like the cottage’s miniscule amount of square footage. Or the broken mailbox that seems to have been hit by a car--possibly, Jared believes, by a truck. Or the lack of satellite dish, _still_ no wi-fi, or the lack of Olympic swimming pool.

“Here we are!” Holding out a hand to Jared, Pico’s grin is as bright as the floral print shirt he’s wearing. “All ready for ya’ta move into!”

Jared reluctantly takes Pico’s hand. As he climbs out of the bed, he’s not flustered. He’s just windblown. Anyone would be after that excursion. Feet on solid ground once more, Jared takes in a deep breath. They drove past a view of the ocean on the way here. It looked like any other large body of water. Maybe there was supposed to be another reaction, but Jared couldn’t dig it up.

“Why’s all my stuff outside?”

“Huh?”

“My stuff. These boxes--why are they still outside?”

Walking over to the passenger’s side, Pico opens the door. A blob of white fur appears, cradled in his arms. The poodle looks meaner than it has any right to be for a babied blob. It seems to pay no attention to Jared or its surroundings; all it does is sigh, as if it’s had half the difficult day Jared has.

“Ah,” Pico finally says, patting Buster on the head. “Well, the movers out here don’t really do that part of a move.”

Unamused, Jared blankly stares at Pico. “Aren’t they _movers_?”

“Heh, yeah, but you see, there’s a funny story ‘bout that. It must have been a good fifteen years ago when Rudy opened up that business. Not many people moving to here, y’know. Well, before that Rudy fixed motorcycles and drove a truck for the shopping district on the side. Good business. You need a motorcycle fixed and Rudy’s your…”

“Look.” Jared snaps, digging into his pocket. “Since you don’t have movers that actually move, I just want to get settled. I need to be left alone for a week.”

“Well, sure, but…”

“I’ll need my key. Here.”

“Well… uh, what’s this?”

“A twenty.”

“What for?”

“Whatever you want it to be for.” Turning to his boxes of stuff, Jared huffs. “Now, I just need my key. Can you or can you not provide that?”

Buster sighs again. Jared has always disliked small dogs. If there’s going to be a mass of fur around, drooling and demanding treats, then the dog should at least be capable of killing any threats to its owner. It doesn’t look like Buster has ever killed anything more than a housefly or a dust bunny.

After he sets the dust bunny killer back into the cab, Pico holds his hands up. “I can’t help ya with that. You’ll hafta wait for the Jensen. He welcomes the new folks.”

“And where might he be?” Is there some other hugely important event going on today that this person couldn’t be bothered to give Jared his key? Hardly. It’s not like they drove past nightclubs packed with people or bustling sidewalks or miles of bumper to bumper taxis. Too busy to drop off his key so he can deal with the incompetence of movers who don’t move? Inconceivable.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Pico replies, “Well, last I heard he was in the shopping district, but that was before I went out…”

“And how would I get there?”

“Uh, a bus.”

“A bus.”

“Yeah, it runs once a day from…”

“A _bus_.”

“I mean, I would take ya, but it’s easier to wait. He’ll be by soon.”

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

Jared turns around again, intent on sorting through the boxes. This might allow an opportunity to explore the cottage on the outside--it’s on the edge of town, surrounded by plants and small trees, close to a valley--but Jared refuses to see this in a positive light. Since the welcome wagon of this rock can’t be bothered to deliver a simple key, Jared is forced to open his carry-on and search for sunscreen. He packed it, didn’t he? Or was it one of those things he assumed his destination would be able to offer upon his arrival?

Shit.

He turns up squat.

Standing up from his search, he dusts his shorts off, irritated that his John Varvatos boat shoes from this spring’s collection are already showing wear from the dusty patch of road leading up to the cottage. Clearly, none of his belongings are safe here.

“Where can I buy sunscreen?” Jared moves his hand to flip his sunglasses on. Then he remembers their tragic end--sacrificed to this horrible, wi-fi-less rock just as he will be.

Pico leans against his truck. Tapping his chin, he answers, “Hmm. Well, if you don’t wan’ta take the bus, you could walk ta the general store in town.”

They didn’t pass town on their way here. In fact, they didn’t pass much besides a bunch of blurred forestry and the ocean. Jared does not have high hopes for the village. If he’s lucky, there might be a mud hut with some goop inside the locals call sunscreen. But it’s become less and less likely that this spiritual and creative immersion or whatever will resemble _Under the Tuscan Sun_.

Before Jared can respond to the radical and unimaginable suggestion of walking to the village, a bright yellow Jeep drives up the lane, projecting a thunderous roar.

“Oh good,” Pico exhales. “He’s here now.”

There are some serious issues Jared would like to bring up to the village captain--with the lack of wi-fi and disregard for punctuality from his assistant extremely high on this list. How is he supposed to post pictures to his Instagram followers if he can’t upload or document anything? And how is he supposed to get to town? Unless there’s a five car garage he just didn’t happen to notice.

Dust from the lane clears.

One sandaled foot appears from the Jeep, firmly placed on the ground.

“Pico, the hell you still doing here? Get on down to Roberto’s. C’mon, get your ass moving.” The tone of voice does not match the appearance of the man from which it originates. In an alternate reality, the guy could probably direct movies with that tone--confident, decisive, and self-assured. Despite this initial assessment, Jared’s hope of finding anyone on this island worth talking to are dashed. Walking up the lane in off-brand, slightly wrinkled khaki shorts, a hideous red Hawaiian print shirt that would cause Michael Kors to finally implode, and bright blue flip flops, the assistant village captain takes his sweet time.

He’s tall enough to be striking and somewhat memorable; however, the bulk of his frame and the obvious disregard for the world of fashion make the assistant just another resident of this terrible rock.

“You must be Jared,” he deduces, as if there are millions just waiting for the chance to move here. “I’m Jensen. Sorry about the wait, business to take care of and all that.” Closer in distance, the assistant shifts his tone of voice on a dime, capable of calm and collected one second, then snippy and authoritative the next. “Pico! Show’s over!” Hollering over his shoulder, Jensen waves the old man off.

Just as Jensen turns back to Jared, Jared begins his own form of hollering.

“I don’t believe that the movers here don’t _move_. It’s highly unprofessional. I’ll require internet access within a few days--not weeks--days. The signal on my cell phone is terrible, so I’ll need a landline to make some phone calls. Also, I do believe there should have been arrangements made for me to use a vehicle for the duration of my stay.”

In typical islander form, Jensen stares at Jared for a few seconds.

“...wh-excuse me?” he sputters and stands there, completely useless and inattentive to Jared’s needs.

“I was told that _you_ are the assistant village captain, which means that _you_ are the individual responsible for these things--aren’t you?” Standing an inch closer to the man, Jared picks up a different scent from anything on this island previously experienced. It’s a scent far deeper than tectonic plates. Splitting his mind apart at the seams, Jared turns, barely able to breathe. He coughs for a few seconds, having forgotten his words and the point of all this… whatever.

“What,” he gags, “is _that_ smell?”

“What smell?”

“That awful smell! How can you not smell it?!” A few tentative sniffs of his immediate area yields an unlikely result. “Oh god--it’s _you_.”

Not that Jared entirely noticed it before, but if Jensen had looked annoyed before, his expression definitely declares it now. Vexation starts in his brow, etched into the corners of his mouth, until it builds into a snap. “They said you’d be a piece of work, but holy hell, you really take the cake, huh?”

“What?! Who said that?”

“Never mind,” Jensen grumbles, digging into his right pocket.

Jared crosses his arms over his chest. The village captain and their assistant have just made a powerful, vengeful enemy. Never cross a H&M model. He’s Cher’s nephew for fuck’s sake--no one gets away with shit. But until this man relinquishes the key to the cottage, Jared has to formulate his plan of attack. Pico left, so there aren’t any witnesses. No one would know if Jared decided to clobber this man over the head with… well, he packed a pair of Prada boots in his carry-on, and they have a slight heel to them.

In trying to determine the best tool available to deliver his revenge, Jared examines his opponent. Jensen is one inch taller than him, though not for long, because according to his mother, his father was six foot five. At twenty-two years old, Jared still has a shot at reaching that height. The Prada boots help, but he has a pair of Armani boots with a better heel. He bought them in Milan last fall. In certain circles back in New York they would be considered out of date, but they are a favorite pair, so Jared packed them. His doubt that anyone would be able to recognize last fall’s collection with this spring’s has yet to be proven wrong. He’ll be lucky if Jensen even owns a pair of actual shoes. This is all so depressing. There are no boutiques, galleries, or salons here to indulge in some retail therapy.

“Now you’re staring at me.”

“I-I am doing no such thing!”

“Well then you zoned out while _staring_ at me.”

With a huff, Jared grabs the key from Jensen’s hand. “Like I would stare at you. As if.”

“Right,” Jensen says with a smirk. He pats his middle. “Because someone like you would never stare at a fat guy like me.”

Jensen holds himself exactly like he speaks--with confidence. He doesn’t hide his size, or his presence, not with that shirt on. Accustomed to teams of stylists and designers swarming over him for fittings, test runs, photoshoots, and those precious few moments before hitting the runway, Jared estimates Jensen at a size fifty waist, maybe a three or four XL. Jared himself has never fit into anything smaller than a size thirty waist, and nothing larger than a thirty-two. Following the advice of fellow models and designers, the majority of his clothes are in a size twenty-eight waist, with a moderate amount of thirties, and only a few select pairs of thirty-twos. Thirty-twos are saved for his bloated days, after a weekend of cocktails and champagne, but not for functions, events, or stepping foot outside of his apartment.

Sighing, Jensen rolls his eyes and moves past Jared. That scent follows.

“Let me guess--Fifth Avenue.”

“What?” Jared follows after, scrambling over a few inconvenient plants and rocks on the way. “Excuse me, what are you going on about? I wasn’t staring…”

“You probably live on Fifth Avenue. Or wait.” Hands on his hips, Jensen stops near the tallest part of Box Mountain. He meets Jared’s eyes. “Chelsea.”

Blushing brighter than Jensen’s hideous shirt, Jared snaps, “It’s a historic neighborhood!”

“Uh huh.”

“Well… well I _wasn’t_ staring. Move. Ugh, you smell like such an alpha.”

“Oh yeah? So? What, you big city folks too good to smell like biology?”

“It’s inelegant,” Jared huffs. “You reek like some unwashed, pubescent, pizza-face alpha.”

As he leans on a box, Jensen laughs. “Funny stuff, your highness. Let me tell you--you just spent the last sixteen hours on a jet plane, charter plane, and the back of Pico’s truck. You don’t exactly smell like a bouquet of roses yourself.”

To hell with the boxes. Jared has what he needs to survive the night in his carry-on and luggage. All he wants to do now is suffer in solitude.

“What are you still doing here?!”

Holding his hands up, Jensen steps back from Jared’s boxes. “Well, figured I might help, but I can see…”

“Get out!”

“Gladly! Right away, your majesty. Guess you won’t be needing the grand tour of the place after all.”

Jared grabs the only thing on hand: the last peppermint candy from his left pocket. He chucks it. The first good thing on this island happens; it hits Jensen square on the head with a satisfying _thwap!_

“Lousy kid,” Jensen can be heard growling, rubbing his head, en route to his Jeep. “Ingrate. Wanna see you try and figure out the god damn stove.”

“I know how to work a stove!” Jared shouts, his fists clenched. “And another thing…”

The Jeep’s engine turning over eats up his complaints, but Jared feels better yelling anyway.

He makes sure the assistant village captain doesn’t get lost on his way back to the main road. Only after the obnoxious roar of the Jeep completely disappears does Jared turn to the cottage. He looks at Box Mountain, then at the cottage, then at Box Mountain, and finally, at the cottage.

Hoisting up his luggage, Jared trudges forth, wishing he had packed liquor.

 


	4. Chapter 4

There’s no shower.

None.

Not one.

Forget a whirlpool tub or even the most simplistic shower stall. Forget his comfortable vintage, clawfoot bathtub at home with its adorable silver faucet. Forget any and all of that. 

Bathrooms are spaces of tranquility, personal luxury, and complete seclusion from the outside world. They are comforting areas to unwind with a glass of chilled wine. Hours in the tub have gone by without any notice from Jared. Back home, he hung up a small yet adequate HD television on the wall opposite the tub, to surf Netflix as he added more hot water and settled in. Bathtub accessories were a must. Lindy kept him well-stocked in every kind of accoutrement--bath bombs, salts, oils, soaps, scrubs, gellies. Jared’s favorite by far was the Razzle Dazzle bath oil from LUSH. Persian lime oil, bergamot oil, violet leaf, organic shea butter, cocoa butter, and jojoba butter took Jared away from stress, noise, and pressure. 

He huffs a piece of it the second he discovers what is supposed to be the shower.

It’s one sad shower head sticking out of a wall, pointed down at flat, moss-covered rocks. 

And it’s outside.

Jared almost cries. 

There aren’t even any privacy screens. It’s on the eastern side of the house, not the backyard, but this offers no consolation. 

Fleeing from the horrible bathing conditions, Jared explores the rest of the cottage, jumping slightly whenever he hears a noise he cannot account for. Floorboards creak with the lightest step. His footsteps echo throughout what can’t be more than a thousand square feet--five hundred square feet less than what he has in Chelsea. When he first entered, he set his stuff down in the narrow, cramped entryway so he could wander. The entryway leads to a somewhat sunken in living room, painted the kind of beige found in rundown department store dressing rooms. Exposed beams in the walls and ceiling should add some fashionably rustic quality, but their chipping paint and visible cracks nips that in the bud. 

Some poorly counseled individual decided to hang up a dowdy rug on the largest wall. 

Windows throughout the cottage are plentiful, which should help, but like the exposed beams, they sit in the walls like corroding teeth. Panes of glass here are there are either smudged, dirty, or cracked. Natural light doesn’t make it more than two inches past the windows. 

Depressing.

By the time Jared makes it to the kitchen, his shoulders are slumped. 

Neither he nor Lindy made it a habit to occupy the kitchen in Chelsea--or Lindy’s kitchen in his place two buildings down the block--but at least it looked… respected. Jared especially loved the modern black marble backsplash he had installed just last year. It was so pretty to look at while he made coffee. 

Of course, black marble does not exist here. There seems to have been an attempt to liven up the kitchen by painting it a light blue. Instead of a pantry, Jared finds randomly placed shelves jutting out of nowhere like rude pedestrians on a busy street. Whoever lived here had the nerve to invite people over, allowing them to see this disaster--a table and chairs for four sits off to the left. Windows are once again numerous and in disrepair, this time centered in the corner of the kitchen. Underneath the windows is a sink that looks like it was salvaged from a bathroom, more shelves, and… the stove top.

But it’s not a stove.

Just like the shower, it is a stove, but not a stove. It’s a cruel substitute for a stove: a two burner camp stove. An ancient red tea kettle mocks Jared as he inspects its platform. How the fuck does he turn this thing on? How does he make fire? Is this what cavemen lived like? How soon until he wears ugly flannel shirts and scratches his ass in public? 

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Jared speaks to no one, but he needs to say it.

“I know how to work a stove.”

Before he leaves the kitchen, he adds, “And  _ that _ is  _ not _ a stove.”


	5. Chapter 5

One somewhat interesting aspect to the cottage becomes a pain in the ass. 

Across from the kitchen, there’s an open yet cramped space that looks like it might fit a bookshelf and a chair but nothing else. It disrupts the space, but hey, even if Jared’s album failed, at least he didn’t design  _ this _ place. Yes, he sort of threw a public tantrum after his aunt left. Yes, he might have kicked everyone out of the club, everyone except Lindy and a few hangers on that clung to him in his moment of despair and heartache. And yes, he may have smudged his makeup and walked out drunk as a poet on payday only to throw up on the sidewalk. 

But he had nothing to do with the construction or design of this rundown shack.

This is someone’s cruel joke. 

His aunt has never stayed here. He cannot imagine it. 

Stairs across from the kitchen lead up to what Jared can only assume is either the bedroom or a torture chamber. A torture chamber might have been more tastefully decorated. Again, that awful shade of beige spreads its demonic wings across the walls of the loft--except on the ceiling, where someone thought it would be just so nice to paint the spaces between the beams a lethargic, anemic gray. 

Like the rest of the cottage, just the basics stare back at Jared: one queen-sized bed on an IKEA-esque frame, a flimsy nightstand, and yet another godforsaken rug, this time on the floor. The one thing Jared notices without too much disdain is the diamond shaped window above the bed. That’s it.

Unpacking his things doesn’t yield much comfort. The nightstand is supposed to act as a dresser, but it smells musty, causing Jared to distrust it. He keeps his clothes carefully folded and sorted in his suitcase.

With a sigh, Jared sits on the uncomfortable bed. Although the blanket smells recently cleaned, it fails to soothe his tumultuous emotions. He checks his phone. No new messages. No signal to receive them. Not a chance of wi-fi. Not a chance in the world to talk to Lindy, who would not only understand his plight, but offer to fly him back immediately. 

Fatigue from his travels takes its toll on Jared. The sun hasn’t set yet in this part of the world, but it’s already morning in New York City. Instead of breathing in the lovely smell of his apartment--a mixture of cedar, lavender, and cotton--he inhales the smell of a place disarmingly unfamiliar. The cottage retains a scent profile of damp wood, old cleaning liquid, and generic laundry softener. 

Jared slips downstairs and outside before the sun disappears entirely. 

He pushes aside boxes until he finds the one marked “Bedroom.” 

Wrapped up in his own blanket, he falls asleep seconds after lying down.


	6. Chapter 6

The human voice is like a muscle.

With training, this muscle can improve in strength and endurance. Most people never understand the full potential of their vocal registers. Lost potential doesn’t matter to them. They will never access their true vocal range simply because of their unwillingness to tap into their upper register. 

Scores of people who think they sing well don’t--because they don’t correctly use air. 

Jared’s first voice coach was a severe man from Stockholm. He insisted that Jared--at nine years old--practice every single day without exception. When Jared contracted a cold, Mr. Aharon had Jared continue his lessons, stating that, “A voice left to rest, receives nothing but jest.” 

Over the years, Jared learned that drinking carbonated beverages before and during performances hindered his voice. Mr. Aharon began the tradition of not eating three hours before any performance. Mdme. Lacy enforced the fact that all good singers have strong vocal control and clear enunciation. She was fond of practicing in libraries, forcing Jared to control his volume, breathing, and consistency. This was the exact opposite of Sanders, who favored benches throughout Central Park or subway cars for Jared to practice musical phrasing--a combination of pitch, volume, tone, and expression. Excellent singers could sing in public, in front of people, in everyday circumstances. 

After twelve hours of sleep, Jared can feel his lungs press and push for song. 

No matter the differences in their styles of teaching, all of his teachers would admonish his refusal to voice a single line or note. 

He thought the cottage and this horrible rock had all been an intoxicated dream. 

Hunger adds to the chorus of his body’s demands. In a hurry to reach the toilet located downstairs, hidden only by a flimsy curtain near the back door, he grabs one of the last protein bars from his carry-on. He then commits a sin hopefully no one else in the world will ever learn of: he devours the protein bar at the same time he uses the porcelain facilities--like some animal or individual who wears ill-fitting sports jerseys and eats chicken wings for all three meals. 

Fortune continues to shun him. He brushes his teeth in the kitchen sink, then spends a good portion of time moping and sulking in the uncomfortable bed. Waking up from a doze, he checks his phone and curses the “no signal” error message whenever he tries to text Lindy. 

Jet lag contributes to the most terrible mood ever. Stomping around the cottage to stretch, he imagines himself as a giant, walking cocoon. Except, when he sheds his blanket, he doesn’t feel like a beautiful butterfly. Pushing past his sour outlook on life, Jared plops himself down in the middle of the sparse living room and imagines himself far, far away. He’d love to visit Milan again. Or Paris, even though tourists swarm the city at this time of year. London would be all right to visit if it only had more sun. There was a charming florist in Madrid that Jared couldn’t understand at all, but it would be fun to see if the gentleman still works there. Maybe this time he would take up the offer for dinner and dancing. 

When he gets back to New York, he should throw a small, selective dinner party. Yes. Then he can have a project again. Invitations should be sent out, by post of course, though he really has to find a new printer. He was able to get away with the design last year, even though it looked entirely different when printed, but why tempt fate? 

This will give him an opportunity to go to Dean and Deluca with Ibrahim, the personal chef he hired two dinners ago. Although Chef Lucas had done an acceptable job last time, dessert had been a tad underwhelming. Jared doesn’t care for nitrogen desserts, but strawberry shortcake? That’s it? Simplicity could only go so far. Maybe he could ask Chef Ibrahim what he could do with creme brulee. Or bananas foster. Or roasted pears with espresso mascarpone cream. Or…

“Hello! New person! Hello?” 

Banging and yelling at the front door causes Jared to snap out of his decadent daydreams and back into his bitter, unsatisfying reality. He wraps his blanket around himself tighter. He’s not home.

“Helloooooooo!” 

Whoever it is continues furiously knocking yet sweetly calling out. Jared prepares himself to give the meanest speech about privacy and rude impositions. 

“Ma, he’s not home.”

“Shh, you keep knocking.”

“You knock.”

“Hellooooooo! New person!” 

“Ma, I’m supposed to meet Dali for lunch… ow!” 

“Next time, watch out.”

“I’m eighteen, ma!” 

“I think he’s awake.”

“Anyone would be with your scree… I, yeah, maybe he is.”

Jared debates on opening the door. On one hand, he’d love to build on his reputation for being a real piece of work as that deplorable assistant whatever had put it. At least then people will leave him alone. On the other hand, leaving these two to argue until they leave seems just as tempting. He peeks through the lacy, crochet curtain on the front door window and sees a bowl of food in Ma’s arms. 

Protein bars leave much to be desired. 

Taking a deep breath, Jared opens the door. 

“Hello!” Ma announces, her eyes lighting up. “My, my, my, it’s been a long time since we had fresh blood here! Let me size you up. Stand up straight, now.” 

“Excu--”

“Just do it,” the daughter murmurs, arms folded over her chest. She looks like the poster child of nineties grunge bands--pierced nose, lip, and ears, short cropped hair dyed blue, and highly androgynous clothing selection. “Save us both time, new person.”

Ma doesn’t really give Jared a chance to resist. She thwaps him on the elbow, triggering some kind of instinctive response to his spine. “Ah, there we go. Little too skinny, but we take care of that. Anak na babae, say hello.”

Just as willing as Jared was to open the door, the daughter greets Jared. “Hello. Okay, Ma, we’re done. Give him the food and let’s  _ go _ . I told you I have to meet Dali.” 

Barely reaching Jared’s chest, Ma somehow muscles her way into the cottage, leading a confused and irritated train. “You must be hungry. My adobo will fix that. You can come over any time for food. You ever try Filipino adobo?”

“N--”

“Mine better,” Ma asserts, placing the bowl on the table. “Divina, find plates. I knew I should bring things for salad. Ah, you’re not vegetarian, eh?” 

“Ma!”

“Divina, plates.” 

“I’m not going through his stuff, Ma. And don’t call me that.”

Jared blurts out his only current thought. “I don’t have plates.”

This doesn’t faze Ma at all. She finds a stack of plates in the cupboard Jared had been too afraid to look in yesterday, for fear of finding something incredibly unpleasant. She runs the sink and washes the stack, commanding Divina to turn on the stove top. 

Glaring at her mother and Jared, the daughter mumbles, “The name’s Div. Don’t listen to her.”

“Jared,” he manages to respond, still in awe of Ma moving around the kitchen, collecting silverware and cups he hadn’t known existed. “...what are you doing here?” 

Ma sets a new world record for fastest table ever set and works on reheating the food. The bowl doubles as a pot. “Don’t think this is how we serve at home,” she says, stirring with a wooden spoon completely new to Jared’s eyes. “Adobo is served over the rice, but you got nothing here!” She laughs and shakes her head. “Ah, bachelors. My son was just like you, before he got married.” 

“That’s the only way we leave home,” Div informs Jared, leaning against the sink. “You either get married or die.” 

There is no question at all as to Div’s marital status. She helps Ma lift up the bowl and ends up serving. Ma has arthritis and her joints are hurting today, which means it will rain later, sure thing. Motioning for Jared to sit, she proudly presents him with a mountain of food. 

There’s not exactly a shit ton of Filipino restaurants in Manhattan. Jared’s had Indian, Thai, Spanish, Mandarin, and Ethiopian. The plate before him looks like a combination of all those. Hunger arm wrestles his hesitance and wins. Under Ma’s watchful eye, he picks up a fork and digs in. 

“Oh my god,” Jared gasps, his mouth packed with adobo and rice. 

“Good, huh?” Ma grins, chin tilted up. “Eat, eat. We join you.” 

This is how he ends up eating lunch with Ma and Div. And of course, Ma wastes no time in getting down to business--personal business. Twenty questions is put to shame. She’s a forty questions woman, uninterested in lengthy, drawn out answers or chit-chat. 

“Your mother?”

“In Los Angeles.”

“What she do?”

“She’s a painter.”

“Your father?”

“He died.”

“Ah, sorry.”

“I was six, I don’t remember him much.”

“Hmm. Where you live?”

“New York City.”

“Alone?”

“Sorta.”

“Yes or no.”

“No.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“Boyfriend.”

“What he do?”

“He… he’s kind of my manager.”

“What else.”

“Uh…”

“Nothing?”

“He doesn’t have to work.”

“He rich?”

“His parents are.”

“Hmm. What you do?”

“I… I was a model.”

“And now?”

“I sing. Or, well, I was trying to.”

“You good?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“You say you sing, but then you say you’re not good. Why?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Hmm. Brothers or sisters?”

“Nope.”

“Aunties or uncles?”

“I see them twice a year.”

“You cook?”

“I take-out.”

“Hmm.”

“Ma,” Div sighs, serving Jared a second helping, “leave him alone.” 

“Why? This hurting you? Just questions. Questions are good. I tell everyone you answer well. Well, except about you singing.”

“Drop it,” Div warns. She sits down and drums her fingers on the table. “So, Jared, what’s a fancy pants city slicker like you doing out here? Building a second home here or something?” 

There would never be an instance for Jared to ever do such a thing. Inhaling the rest of the adobo on his plate, he shakes his head. “No. Just here for… peace and quiet.”

Eyebrows raised, Div leans back in her chair. “Ah, so you’re hiding out, huh? You picked a good place to do it. We saw the mover’s lose their shit when your stuff got here. No one’s moved here in years.” 

“I’m not hiding,” Jared sniffs. “And some movers.”

“Yeah, they’re lazy shits.”

“Divina!” 

“Ma!” 

“Invite him to the village.”

“Why don’t you invite him to the village?”

“Di--”

“Ugh. Jared, would you like to go to the village? If you say no, I’ll come back here later, without my mother, and punch you.”

“Ah!” Ma waves Div off. “Watch that mouth!” She turns to Jared, shifting from scolding to inviting in nanoseconds. “I will introduce you. Then you stay for dinner.”

“Oh, uh, I…”

“Resistance is futile.” Div snatches Jared’s empty plate and the rest of the dishes from the table. “Trust me, I’m eighteen and I still haven’t learned this. Best you learn it now, before she starts smacking you on the head too.”

“Ah, look who talks,” Ma huffs. “Miss got in at midnight last night.” 

Over by the sink, ready to wash dishes, Div hisses her reply. “I was home by ten! That is not midnight!” 

“Hoy, you don’t need to yell. I can hear. And I can hear when you come in at midnight.”

“You never say anything to Raina when she comes in late.”

“Raina not out doing dangerous things.”

“You don’t even know what I do.”

“I know they are dangerous.”

“Ma, I could be in our home, watching a movie and you’d still tell me to, ‘Oh, be safe, be safe, very dangerous.’” 

“Hmm.” 

“In fact, I’m pretty sure you said that to me and Dali last week when we were in my room listening to stuff.”

“Too loud! You want to be deaf?” 

“That’s because you and tatay were yelling in the living room about the couches. You guys always yell. Even when you think you’re not, you are.” 

“You see,” Ma says to Jared, pointing at Div and then at him, “I raised daughter, gave birth to her, feed her everyday, and she talks to me like this. You talk like this to your mother?”

Since he left Los Angeles for New York three years ago, he hasn’t exactly been on his mother’s good side. She visited once, and it was enough of a disaster for her to grudgingly accept the distance between them. He’ll call her on her birthday and she will do the same, but those are not lengthy conversations. They used to bicker like this, especially when he was fourteen and on the debate team, but it’s been years since she’s asked him if he’s been eating enough, has he cleaned his apartment, or if he’s finally given up being such a stubborn kid. 

“No,” Jared answers. “I don’t.” 

Triumphant, Ma stands up, beaming. “Ha, you see, Divina?” 

“Div, Ma! Div.” 

“Uh, you didn’t have to do the dishes.” 

“Don’t mention it. It puts space between me and her.”

On the window sill near the sink are two small potted plants. Jared hadn’t noticed them yesterday. They brighten up the window, which is still just as smudged and dirty. Loosening his blanket, he takes a deep breath. The kitchen smells like dish soap and adobo. 

“I will introduce you,” Ma reminds him, patting his arm. “But first, you go dress.”

Jared means to say that of course he’ll actually get dressed, he’s not going to waltz into the village with his boxers on, but upon looking down, he shuts up. 

It’s not his boxers he sees. 


	7. Chapter 7

In New York City, the taxi is king.

On this rock floating in the middle of the ocean, walking is king.

“I told you to wear comfortable shoes,” Div says as their trio approaches town. “You don’t walk anywhere in the big city?”

More out of breath than he’d care to admit, Jared shakes his head. “These  _ are _ comfortable. They’re just not made for ten mile hikes. Sane people take cabs in the city. And they would here, too.”

Shrugging, Div slows her pace. Ma walks ahead of them, as she has for the entire trek, every so often looking back at them to either tell them to walk faster or to make sure they aren’t up to anything inappropriate. 

“It’s three miles. You won’t die.”

“My shoes will.”

“Maybe then you’ll buy a decent pair of sneakers.”

The word sneakers makes Jared’s nose scrunch. He would never purchase such a thing, just like he would never in a million years be the owner of a pair of flip flops. Influential circles in Manhattan would cease all connection with him if they knew he’d even listened to the suggestion of acquiring a pair of sneakers. No. He owns a pair of respectable New Balance  _ performance shoes _ . 

On their walk, Jared noticed how far apart the houses are. Not many people live outside of the village. Those who do are often newer to the area, having lived here for only ten or fifteen years. And that makes them new still. Ma has pointed out a few of Jared’s closest neighbors. Her references have included whether or not they have plastic on their couches--which they should--and informing Jared that several, if not all, of these people have declared her home as the best anywhere. 

Eventually, Jared stands in the center square of the village. It’s nothing like Times Square. 

Shops form a perimeter around the square, many of them in good condition. Houses line up in a tidy row behind the shops, a good majority of them utilizing a style that’s a mashup of Georgian and Tudor style. Jared took two classes on architecture in high school. They’re finally paying off. 

People leave shops and their homes to walk up to them. Soon enough, Jared feels like these aren’t villagers; they’re paparazzi in disguise. The older ladies enjoy pinching Jared in certain places that would make their granddaughters blush. True to her word, Ma introduces him to each and every person who steps outside to see Jared and make his acquaintance. He ends up shaking so many hands and witnessing hairstyles that would make Dolly Parton blush. 

A mix of people from different racial and socioeconomic backgrounds call the village home. Most residents have been here all their lives, or for twenty years at least. But how? How does someone never leave the place they were born and raised? How is that a good life?

The rumble of an engine in the distance creates a stir in the residents. 

“Isn’t he taking the kids out today?”

“I heard he’s taking the kids out today.”

“Like you heard anything.”

“I did!” 

Younger inhabitants begin making their appearances. Jared speaks to a few before they run off to the village square. Ushered inside Ma’s house, which is of course close to the square, Jared sits in his assigned chair and refrains from arguing when food appears in front of him again. He’s not used to eating so much so soon, but the meals on the plane sucked and he figures he’ll walk off the carbs later. Div disappears, wishing Jared luck with the rest of the village. 

At least two women pop in at Ma’s, hopeful to get a scoop on the new person. They whisper their questions about Jared to Ma in front of him, switching back and forth between English, Tagalog, and another language Jared can’t pinpoint. 

“He eats good,” Ma announces, taking his empty plate and replacing it with a salad of what looks like tomatoes and eggs. The main dish was something like an omelet, served with more rice. Accompanying everything is a sweet, light juice that makes him think of Jamba Juice. “Well, with  _ my _ cooking. See? He eat it all.” 

Temptation to tell Ma that he’s eaten in Michelin restaurants all over the world rises, but he decides to keep eating and let her tell the story. He’s no foodie, but he’s not some greenhorn when it comes to trying new dishes. As long as it’s not raw meat--that incident in Paris with steak tartare was just the  _ worst _ \--he’ll try it. Luckily, so far, everything Ma has placed in front of him, he’s enjoyed. He’s not sure what he would have done otherwise, since all of his subtle and not subtle gestures that he’s full go ignored. 

Twenty questions begins again. Rhoda and Chesa leave no stone unturned. 

“How long you stay?” Rhoda stands as the tallest of the three. She also looks like she’s been in a terrible mood for the past forty years. 

On Rhoda’s right, Chesa provides some odd balance. “Look at those cheekbones! Are you seeing someone? Is it serious?” 

Jared doesn’t answer. Because he can’t. One, he might have eaten a little too much, which makes breathing, speaking, moving, living a little difficult. Two, Ma beats him to it. “Of course he seeing someone. Boyfriend.” 

“Ah, hmm,” both Rhoda and Chesa reply. 

“He stay long enough to eat every dish I make.” 

“Cha, so what? He stay for two days, eh?” 

“If it’s not serious, you welcome to keep me company any time.” 

“Ack! You think you funny. Last time we had a visitor, I remember he spent time on the toilet after a meal at your house.” 

Overwhelmed and uncomfortably full, Jared sits as still as possible. Maybe if he doesn’t move they won’t see him. Why did he eat so many carbs? So much rice? And his feet still hurt. And the lack of sunscreen hasn’t been a problem so far, but it will be, and he’d prefer not to resemble a lobster by the end of the day. An opportunity to ask for sunscreen presents itself, but it dies a quick and silent death, steamrolled by an argument over something in Tagalog. 

A minute later, just as jarring to his senses as the first time, the roar of an engine outside commands attention. All three women pat Jared on the shoulder and instruct him to get up. They want to see what’s going on and he, apparently, has to accompany them. Chesa loops her arm through Jared’s, content to walk with him while Ma and Rhoda lead, arguing still. 

The Jeep is no shock, but Jensen’s outfit is. 

Today’s ensemble consists of a navy, sleeveless shirt, denim cargo shorts frayed and torn at the hems, and sneakers so dirty their original color cannot be determined. His hair is wild too, a respectable tawny color with some decent shine to it, but completely left to its own devices. It sticks out in all directions, obviously never having experienced a comb or hair gel. Jared didn’t have much time to get ready this morning, but if he was going to be called a piece of work, he decided he would look like one. His fitted True Religion denim shorts sit mid-thigh, showing off the legs he’s worked hard to sculpt and maintain. The Armani v-neck he chose provides contrast to the shorts--a light pink hue, creamy, clean, and clear.

And of course, he brushed his hair, pulling it back into a tidy ponytail, artfully allowing a few strands loose to frame his face. 

His eyes meet Jensen’s through the small crowd of people surrounding the Jeep. 

Yep, Jared knows that look. No doubt about…

“Has he told y’all that you smell yet?” 

Dammit.

Kids swarm the Jeep, climbing in, fighting over shotgun until a few parents step in to resolve the matter. 

“I need a list, who’s got it?” Jensen moves from circle to circle of parents and guardians, saying hello, catching up in a few words before continuing on. “The water was good this morning. Isa, you promised me some of that bread, yeah? Ah, Helen, we still on for bridge tomorrow? How could I forget? You whoop my ass every game. Mikey, you joining us? Good, good. Chesa, I got that part for your fridge. Later today, eh?” 

Jensen’s rotation eventually lands on Jared. 

“Well, looks like you survived your first night.” 

“I did just fine, thank you.”

“Uh huh, I bet you did.”

“You still smell.”

“As do you.”

“What?!” 

Signing something one of the parents passes over, Jensen smiles. “Oh yeah. Big time. You think you city folk have got it down, but let me tell you--phew.” 

“...what do I smell like?  _ If _ I smelled, because I don’t.” Necessity forced Jared to skip a shower this morning, plus, he still hasn’t accepted the shower situation at the cottage. 

Shoulders back, Jensen stands within a few inches of Jared. “Nah, you don’t wanna know. Wouldn’t interest you.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Like I care about that!” 

“Limes.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You smell like limes.”

“I... “

“And omega. But that’s different. Actually, now that I’m talking about it, you kind of  _ reek _ of omega.”

Jared’s excellent, witty remark to defend his honor gets cut down by the squeals and pleas of children. The older kids articulate their desire to leave for a hike, while the younger ones focus on creating noises or simply repeating Jensen’s name over and over again. Sighing, Jensen yields his attention to them, asking them all to clarify what they want. 

“HIKING!” 

“What?!”

“WE WANNA GO HIKING!” 

“Biking?!”

“NO! HIKING!” 

“Oh! You mean, washing my Jeep!” 

“NO!!!” 

Parents, grandparents, aunties, and uncles say their farewells to the kids and their eternal gratitude to Jensen for taking them on a group hike. One mother slathers her little boy in sunscreen just before she lets him board the Jeep; Jared contemplates asking her for a few drops before it becomes clear that he doesn’t tan--he burns. 

“Are you coming with?!” a small girl shouts at Jared, grinning from ear to ear, hanging off the back frame of the Jeep. “Your hair is pretty!” 

Pleased at the compliment, Jared smiles in return, until the same little girl adds, “Come with us, escort boy!” 

Several adults rush forward to apologize, but Jensen waves them all off. “Oh, c’mon, he can take a joke, right? She didn’t mean it, did you, Min?” 

All innocence, Min looks up at Jensen, then at Jared, and back at Jensen. “But you said…” 

“I said we’re going on a hike!” Jensen laughs, covering Min’s mouth. “And Jared’s gonna join us, so no one gets to sit shotgun. C’mon, heh, let’s go. How about we not talk for the whole drive up there?” He turns to Jared. “Look, you don’t have to go with, I totally understand if you’re not the outdoorsy, hiking type.” 

No, he’s not. 

Nature is always best appreciated on documentaries from the comfort of Jared’s plush, leather, Ralph Lauren couch. The sun’s healthful effects should be harnessed while on a luxury cruise liner, or at the very least, while on a private beach. Out in the wild there are all kinds of possibilities to encounter bugs, animals, poisonous plants, and quicksand. But. Fuck. That. Shit. 

“I’m going with,” Jared snaps, pushing past Jensen and situating himself in the passenger’s seat. 

After a moment of silence, Jensen replies, “All right then… guess you’re feeling gutsy today.”

“Are we  _ going  _ or not?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going. Everyone on board? Last call. Tim, all hands and feet inside the vehicle. Okay, well, this is an interesting group.” Jensen climbs in and looks at Jared. “You do know that hiking involves being outside and walking, right? We usually do a three mile hike--each way.” 

Jared wants to stick his tongue out at Jensen and call him some choice names. Instead, he opts for telling Jensen that they will have to stop at the cottage.

“For what?” Jensen starts the Jeep. The kids cry out in excitement. 

“I need to change my shoes.”

 

Hiking wasn’t exactly in Jared’s itinerary for his spiritual and creative whatever. He brought along a pair of Gucci, leather perforated boots, classic style applicable for all seasons and looks, handcrafted in Italy, the color of rich mahogany. They are the most suitable for the proposed activity of trudging through the splendor of nature, but they also cost a little over a thousand dollars. 

Jared screams internally the first time he steps in something sticky along the trail. 

For the first mile, he copes with the situation by reciting his favorite pairs of shoes, not all of which were able to be packed for the journey to this rock. There are those pair of Bottega Veneta boots he adores--a selection from one of his shoots. Oh, and the pair of Christian Louboutin dress shoes he bought for himself last Christmas; he needs to break those in, maybe when he gets back to Manhattan he can see what’s playing at the Met. A pair of Ferragamo’s have made their way into his top three favorite pairs, even though they’re a little flashier than what he typically prefers. And of course, nothing goes better with his suits from Brooks Brothers than his Brooks Brothers shoes. 

Mile two and the children have yet to feel any depletion in energy or enthusiasm. Every two minutes, one of them finds something that they absolutely must show Jensen or Jared. Specimens of all kinds have been shoved into Jared’s face--sticks, bugs, bugs on sticks, clumps of moss, rocks with clumps of moss on them… And if they for some reason do not discover something gross to draw his attention to, they pass the time by asking millions of questions. 

What’s New York City like? Has he ever been to the Statue of Liberty? Is he really a model? Really? How much does he get paid? Does he really just have to stand in front of a camera to make money? Can he stand on his head? Did he always want to be a model? Does he know Kim Kardashian? 

It doesn’t end.

Has he ever dropped a penny from the top of the Empire State Building? Did it kill someone? Did it splatter their brains? If zombies invaded New York City, what would happen? Godzilla? Has he ever met Tony Stark? Do all male models keep their hair long? How come his shoes look so nice? Doesn’t he own a pair of sneakers? 

“I think that’s enough questions,” Jensen announces, stopping their group. “But I do wanna know--do you know Kim Kardashian?” 

Jared rolls his eyes. “I still don’t… ugh, yes. I mean, I don’t really  _ know _ her, but I’ve met her a few times at parties.” 

All the kids old enough to understand his answer--and Jensen--look at Jared for a moment.

“What about Kanye?” multiple voices inquire, each one talking louder than the other to be heard. “Can you get us autographs? Oh! How about Beyoncé?!” 

Holding up his backpack, Jensen whistles, directing the kids’ attention to him. “All right, all right, you bunch of brats. C’mon, snack time. Min, I saw that, put the turtle down.” 

Flinching at the sight of Min holding a live turtle two feet away from him, Jared zips away, preferring to stand next to the only other adult on this excursion, even if it is Jensen. 

As Jensen doles out snacks--working off a list that serves as a headcount of all the kids and any food allergies--Jared plops down on a rock, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand. This march through the wilderness seems like something Jensen does often. Not only does he know all their names, all ten, but he hardly has to look at the list to know what child can’t have wheat and what child can only have veggies.

The trail is okay. It’s not the botanical gardens in Manhattan, but it’s pretty. Jared would like more flowers and less turtles and insects, but there are some interesting things to see. The trees in this section of forest aren’t particularly tall or large. They’re wispy, but bunched close together. Birds call out to each other from tree to tree. Some have distinctive stripes and coloring, enough for Jared to wonder what kind they are and if there’s an app on his phone that might identify them. 

Looking up, Jared’s eyes trace the curvature of branches. Ferns and lush greens stretch over the roots of trees. Younger trees seem to gather in the middle of the forest, as if protected. 

“We can split my snack.” Jensen zips up his backpack and sits down on a rock near Jared’s. Discreetly, Jared watches the flex of Jensen’s muscles in his arms and calves. He’s solid. Big, yes, but solid. When he sits down, his middle occupies space on his thighs, which must make for a familiar weight. “You’re doing it again.” 

“What?” Jared snaps and snatches the baggie of carrot sticks from Jensen’s hands. “I’m  _ not _ staring.”

Jensen munches on a stick of celery, then takes a sip from his canteen, which he places in the middle of them. “You think you’re sly, but let me tell you, fat people can tell when they’re being looked at.” 

“You… I don’t think you’re…” 

“Fat?” 

“I never said that.”

“Hmm. That’s right, you didn’t. Maybe you should say it now.”

“Why on earth would I? That would be rude.”

With a pat to his middle, Jensen glances at Jared. “I’m fat. I know I’m fat. I identify as a fat man. Go on, guess how much I weigh.” 

“...three hundred?” 

“Ha!” Jensen’s shoulders shake. “Oh man, skinny people are shit at guessing weight. You’re like, one-seventy, right?” 

“Wh… how?” 

“My left butt cheek is probably one-seventy. Try three-eighty.” 

“Look, I don’t know what the point of this is…”

“My point,” Jensen says, biting into an apple, “is that you can look, but don’t stare. You’re a model. You know the difference.” 

Jared fidgets, nibbling on a carrot out of anxiety. He doesn’t know what to say in response. Yes, he knows the difference between being looked at and stared at. He knows the difference quite well. And maybe he has been intently looking at or watching Jensen on the trail. Jensen has kept up with the kids better than him, barely pausing or sweating. Jared has had to catch his breath, especially on the steeper portions of their climb, reminding him that he should book an appointment with a trainer when he returns. 

Finished with his snacks, Jensen properly disposes of everything, saving any plastic baggies. He gets up, wipes a few of the kids’ faces with a couple of wet-naps, and announces that this is the time to pee, because they’re not stopping until they reach the top. Half of their group scuttles off into the forest, giggling, Min shouting at everyone not to pee on the turtle. 

“Chelsea Market was my favorite,” Jensen offers. “I found some cool stuff there a couple times.” 

The mention of the Market accentuates a pang of homesickness in Jared’s chest. He misses sidewalks, skyscrapers, and thousands of lights dotting every direction. He misses the feel of walking down 9th Avenue, surrounded by determined and resilient people all on their way to another day in New York City.

In a softer voice, Jensen speaks again. “C’mon, let’s get going before the kids figure out what a coup is.” 

Half an hour later, their group reaches the top of the hill with only a few injuries--scrapes, bruises, and mosquito bites. Jared is one of the afflicted, scratching at a bite on his arm, bringing up the rear of their group. He expects an expansive view of the forest, similar to something he’s seen on multiple documentaries. 

Their group remains quiet for a good two minutes; even the smallest in the bunch. 

It’s just enough time for Jared to pretend there’s something in his eye without anyone vocalizing that they’ve noticed. 

He’s never seen so much green.


	8. Chapter 8

That night, despite the aches in his limbs and the slight sunburn all over, Jared writes.

This is nothing like his usual writing in any sense. He’s not curled up on his Ralph Lauren couch, He isn’t just stepping out of his clawfoot tub after soaking in oils for hours. Instead, he’s sweaty, dirty, and covered in a salve Ma insisted on applying onto him before Jensen drove him back to the cottage. Even his hair has suffered--deflated from its previous elegance, hanging in deplorable conditions.

Whatever consumes his hand as lyrics pour forth doesn’t even understand the guidelines of pop.

Possessed, Jared sits in the living room, one lamp his sole light source, papers scattered everywhere. He snatches pieces of previous works, snippets he’s been meaning to use, catching words in the three journals he keeps for such an occasion. Simultaneously, he develops the sound, experimenting, humming notes, driving his pen faster and faster to keep up with the chaos. Revisions are made in the moment. This word--here. That word--no, it shouldn’t sound so harsh. Softer. Seductive. Haunting. And his voice has to match it. He can’t push the notes out too fast. The rise and fall of his lungs alternates between the melody of the song and his hurry to capture every word.

Hours pass.

Nighttime peers in from grimy window panes.

Ink drags along the stretch of margins, interrupted and disjointed.

Drums should take center here. But the song should depend on vocals and guitar. Not electric guitar. Country guitar. The kind that can go high one second and fade into the background the next.

 _Let’s XXXXX_ **_settle_ ** _down / The world won’t stop spinning ‘round / We’ll get out of this ^ mess / Wait and see / Wait and see, is that what you’ll do? / You think I’m mental in anguish over you? /_

_Does the fact that we may die / urge you to pine and stew? /_

_Do you think I’m mental in anguish for you? / I can’t lie beneath the sky / concern of mine is you. /_

[Chorus help] _Tell me that your tan is via the sun. / Tell me that the plan won’t hurt anyone... / Oooh… /_

[Spoken] _We will get out of this mess. / Wait and see. /_ [Drums here] _Wait and see, is that what you’ll do? ... /_

_You think I’m mentally anguished for you? /_

_Does the fact that we may die / urge you to pine and stew? /_

_Do you think I’m mentally anguished over you?_ [Guitar here] _/ I can’t lie / beneath the sky / concern of mine is you. /_

_No, I can’t lie, beneath the sky / concern of mine / is you / think I’m mental…!_

He can hear it.

Nothing about it sounds familiar.

Sprawled out, on his back, Jared stares at the ceiling, out of breath and hovering slightly out of his mind. Nausea rises in the raw channel of his throat. For a moment, it seems like he’ll throw up here, all over the living room floor. Staring. He was staring. And he got caught outright.

Sitting up, Jared scrambles for a fresh piece of paper.

_Some are waving it around / Someone carried me home /_

_One was never noticed sleeping on the floor /_

_But I know we were there /_

_Some were playing in a round / Some were dipping so low / It never seemed to matter as the night slipped away / Cause there was soul in the air /_

_We were howlin’ at the moon / We were shakin’ our hips / Danced until we flat out falling into bed /_

_But I won’t let you go /_

_So, let me in or let me down /_

_Let me lay here so slow /_

_Baby just keep holding, got to move our feet /_

_‘Cause you know it ain’t end /_

_Step it in or step it out / Cut it all in and run / Kept on till it mattered, baby, I don’t even see /_

_But I know we were there /_

_We were howlin’ at the moon / We were shakin’ our hips / Danced until we flat out falling into bed / Said I won’t let you go /_

_We were howlin’ at the moon / We were shakin’ our hips / Danced until we flat out falling into bed /Said I won’t let you go / Said I won’t, I won’t, baby, let you go_

Again.

Painful, separating, immersion. This pen runs out of ink.

_Silicone, saline, poison / inject me / Baby, I’m a free bitch / I’m a free, bitch /_

_Some girls won’t dance to the beat of the track / She won’t walk away, but she won’t look back / She looks good, but her boyfriend says she’s a mess /_

_She’s a mess /_

_She's a mess /_

_Now the girl is stressed /_

_She’s a mess /_

_She’s a mess /_

_She’s a mess /_

_She’s a mess /_

_Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance in the dark / Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance, love to dance in the dark /_

_Run, run / Her kiss is a vampire grin / The moon lights her way while she’s howlin’ at him /_

_She looks good, but her boyfriend says she’s a tramp /_

_She’s a tramp/ She’s a vamp / But she still does her dance /_

_She’s a tramp / She’s a vamp / But she still kills the dance /_

_Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance in the dark / Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance, love to dance in the dark /_

_In the dark / She loves to dance in the dark / In the dark / She loves, she loves to dance in the dark /_

_Marilyn / Judy / Sylvia / Tell ‘em how you feel, girls! /_

_Work your blonde Jean Benet Ramsey / We’ll haunt like Liberace / Find your freedom in the music / Find your Jesus/ Find your Kubrick / You will never fall apart, Diana / you’re still in our hearts / Never let you fall apart / Together, we’ll dance in the dark /_

_Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance in the dark / Baby loves to dance in the dark / ‘Cause when he’s lookin’ she falls apart / Baby loves to dance, love to dance in the dark /_

_In the dark /_

Light creeps in past the glass.

He worked all night.

And it’s morning now.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Jared sleeps the entire day, on the living room floor, until knocking on the front door wrestles him from a dream about strawberries and champagne. It was such a good dream. He was staying at the Four Seasons Beverly Wilshire, with Edward Lewis. They were lying in bed, legs tangled, and Edward was about to reveal the maximum limit on his Amex card. Plans were in place for Jared to get a massage after sex, then some time in the spa, and finally, joining Edward for a quiet dinner at a restaurant overlooking the ocean.

Snorting awake, Jared groans, searching for his phone.

Whoever it is better not have extremities they’ll miss. 

His movements cannot be described as elegant, but he makes his way over to the front door, this time clothed. Wrenching the door open, he almost screams at the bowl of food shoved in his face. 

“Good morning!” Jensen hollers. “I’m here to give you breakfast, compliments of Ma, and to do a wellness check. Div stopped by and you didn’t answer, so now half the village thinks you’re dead.”

“Uhhhhgggnnnn…”

“Well, as far as corpses go, you look pretty good.”

“What,” Jared hisses, his eyes refusing to open completely, “are you doing here?” 

In the same manner as Ma, Jensen just waltzes right in, heading towards the kitchen. Jared scoots after, wrapping his blanket around himself tighter. He prepares to cuss out Jensen for interrupting the recreation of his past life as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but decides to save his energy once Jensen reaches to fill up the coffee pot. 

“I didn’t think you were a morning person, and now I know you’re not.” Jensen’s ratio of coffee to water is enough to destroy stomach lining. He masters the camp stove and begins reheating whatever is inside the neon green bowl he brought with. “I’m a little disappointed though. Div said she got to see you eat breakfast buck ass naked.” 

“Not on purpose,” Jared growls, hunched over the kitchen table. “You all have a talent for barging in.”

“It’s called making myself at home.”

“Barging. In.”

Jensen navigates the kitchen easily enough. He finds the one fry pan in existence and begins frying two eggs with a pat of butter he brought with. “We have to get you to the shopping district. You’re in luck, I’m free today, so you don’t have to take the terrible bus.”

Swiping sleep away from his eyes, Jared coughs, his throat sore. He hadn’t realized at the time last night that he had been singing. “I hate the bus.”

“So I’ve heard. But as much as I know Ma will cook for you until the end of time, you should probably make your own food, too. You know, learn some shit while you’re here.” 

“I know how to cook.”

“Yeah? What’s your specialty?” 

“Toast,” Jared mutters. 

In just about ten minutes, Jensen serves up two plates--not because one of them is for him, but because Ma sent over so much it only fits on two. Jared offers some before he digs in, but Jensen puts his hand up. “Nope, I ate. I cook my own breakfast.” 

“You came over to judge me, didn’t you?” 

Breakfast, for the few moments that Jared notices it before he inhales it, is a side of rice, fried pork, and eggs on one plate, and a large tomato and cucumber salad on the other. Jensen pours him a cup of coffee, black, and leans against the fridge while Jared eats. He looks around the kitchen. Jared hasn’t exactly moved in at all. Aside from one box he dragged in himself yesterday, the rest of his crap is still Box Mountain. 

“Oh yeah. I don’t wanna miss a chance.” 

Uncaring of his mouth stuffed with food, Jared motions for Jensen to sit down. “Would you? People standing while I eat makes me nervous.” 

Jensen doesn’t reply right away. 

A moment of awkward silence--save for the sound of Jared shoveling food into his mouth--makes an insistent and provocative appearance. Jared puts down his fork and looks at Jensen. 

“Sorry?” he murmurs, swallowing the last of the first plate. “Uh, I mean… I just…” 

“I’ll break those chairs,” Jensen cuts in, shrugging and folding his arms across his chest. “Trust me, I know. Previous experience.” 

Jared has no idea what to say.

None at all.

Not one fucking clue. 

So he does the only thing his stupid brain can think of--he grabs his fork and second plate with one hand, and his cup of coffee with his other. He doesn’t worry about the blanket, just about balancing his precious plate of food and the even more precious mug of coffee. 

In a few simple movements, Jared sits down on the floor, legs crossed. 

He looks up at Jensen, then back at his food, and continues to eat. 

Laughing under his breath, Jensen eases himself down, and takes a sip from Jared’s mug. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” 

Jared nods and snatches back his mug.


	10. Chapter 10

“My god, how long does it take for you to get ready?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m going to die here.”

“I’m not listening.”

“Here Lies Jensen Ackles: Died from Waiting for Jared to Put on His Face.”

“Ackles? Really?”

“It’s Welsh.”

“I would say that explains shit, but I don’t know crap about Wales.”

“We’re a hearty people.”

“You’re only distracting me from getting ready.”

“It’s been hoooours.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“You know you have a shower, right?”

“I refuse to shower outside.”

“Really? I’d think you’d like it.”

“What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just, you know, you’re used to being naked in public.”

“I was jet lagged! And for your information, I don’t do nude shoots, I model  _ clothes _ .” 

“Uh huh, okay.”

“...I mean, I’ve done a few, but they’re never as fun as you’d think.”

“Have you ever done porn?”

“No. Why?”

“You have the body for it.”

“Weren’t you the one who said shit about staring?”

“I’m not staring. You’re upstairs, I’m sitting here on the kitchen floor.”

“You could’ve come up.”

“That ladder creaks when  _ you _ climb it. I’m not pushing my luck.”

“Whatever. I’m not against porn, I just don’t think it’s that interesting.” 

“Does porn have to be interesting?”

“Good porn does. And I would make good porn.”

“Yeah, you would.”

“Glad to know that at least we agree on something.”

“I’ve done some porn.”

“...What?” 

“Yeah. While back.”

“You’re… no.”

“Uh huh. What, fat guys can’t do porn? You know, I paid off my Jeep with that money.”

“It’s not that… why do you keep trying to put words in my mouth?”

“No one is putting anything into your mouth.”

“Huh, not what it feels like to me.”

“There’s too many things I could say here, I don’t know which one to choose.”

“Poor precious. ...what kind of porn?”

“Good porn.”

“Ugh, you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Then I don’t believe you.”

“Fine, like I care.”

“Fine.”

“Are you ready now? This is the shopping district, not the Ritz.”

“The Ritz is not actually that nice anymore. Only the one in Paris. I prefer the Waldorf Astoria.” 

“Oh, excuse me.”

“Hmph. Hair up or down?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“We’ve talked about porn, I can’t ask you for an opinion about my hair?” 

“Up.”

“Okay.”

“It looks nice up.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s also hot as shit outside.”

“...hmm.”


	11. Chapter 11

It’s definitely not Whole Foods, but Jared actually enjoys the trip to the market. 

He can spend money there, that’s a plus. And the area feels like the Chelsea Farmer’s Market, with stalls and cute table spreads, vendors and customers handpicking their selections. The absence of dealing with Sunday morning queer drama seems to be a perk, but Jared isn’t too sure about that yet. He misses tea and scones over brunch with Lindy at that little place two blocks from his apartment. There’s no such shop in the market, and Jared can’t seem to find flaxseed oil, organic quinoa, or Moroccan Style mint tea. 

Despite these hardships, he carries on, basket slung on his arm. Jensen walks beside him, or at least tries to for the first two minutes. He steps aside at every other booth, stall, or table to greet someone and their family. Sometimes it’s by choice, other times it’s because residents have a concern or comment to relay.

Jared contemplates slapping a bumper sticker on Jensen’s butt: CAUTION: MAKES FREQUENT STOPS. Every couple of steps someone requires Jensen’s attention. 

Irritated by the lack of shopping partner when there are so many interesting things to purchase, Jared hangs back at Jensen’s current stop: a tomato stall, to chat with a man who seems to be around Jared’s age. Stuck for the moment, Jared might as well listen in on some gossip. Even a floating rock has to have some juicy tidbits. 

“ Olide des las, que a mo, quedio. Nel me, retteux un tur sidési nouves le sen. La habe nifinc cula de cin parran auce .”

“ Del e cal, de hezzo de po prifio tenta veros quecio ,” Jensen replies, cool as ice.

Great. They’re speaking in what Jared assumes to be a language native to the island. However, even Jared knows enough from his former life in New York City not to barge in or demand that people speak English so he can understand. However, this knowledge does not stop him from being bored. He picks up a tomato and studies it. How does this tomato become bolognese sauce? How do the chefs at Jean Georges shape these into roses? Or were those radishes?

“He says you can have one,” Jensen rumbles, nudging Jared’s shoulder. 

“Huh?” Jared blurts out. “Oh, well, I can pay…”

“Don’t.” 

“Why not? My money’s right here.”

“Because,” he sighs, “you’ll offend him. He’s saying you can  _ have _ one. Now put it in your basket before your eyes cross lookin’ at that thing.” Taking one for himself as well, Jensen gently places it in Jared’s basket before waving to the man. “ Parde eni alespré eluiar .” 

“Thank you?” Jared says, trying his best to show his gratitude. “Um, thank you very much.”

Jensen pulls Jared away and onto the next stall, this one offering fruit that looks like a mango engaged in a threesome with a banana and a pineapple. The owner here, who somewhat resembles Danny Devito, speaks Spanish, but introduces himself to Jared in English as a South Korean ex-pat. His handshake could crush empires. Jared draws back, half behind Jensen, before Mr. Yeun can do it again. 

They continue on like this, stall after stall, until Jared’s basket fills up and Jensen accepts an invitation from Mrs. Durand, a native of France who traveled around Venezuela and Paraguay. She’s nearly as tall as Jared and Jensen, wearing a bright red sundress with white polka dots and a sun hat. As a breeze rushes past, it tilts her auburn curls up, framing her heart-shaped face. Speaking to Jensen in smooth, quiet French, she hands over two large plastic bags filled with containers. 

With a plastic fork in his mouth, Jensen finally begins to make decent time getting through the rest of the market. Jared follows, grateful for the escort through the increasingly dense crowds. In the small pauses of navigation, Jared attempts to map the marketplace out. If he can make it six weeks here, the entire music industry is his to claim. His Aunt has promised him that, numerous times. 

The only catch, however, remains his problem.

She has to like his music.

Shoving aside his nightmarish debut night, Jared resolves to understand the layout of the market. Larger vendors--from the little he’s gathered--line the center aisle, divided by a large walkway. The path would be clear if not for small children, the elderly, and a few rogue chickens. Although Jared fears the chickens, he fears the small children most of all. People walk at their own, sometimes annoying paces, and like Jensen, many of them enjoy chatting more than actually shopping. Some stalls are set up with fabric tents and silver adornments hanging down from the tops; others are simple in their stature, almost minimalist.

Pastel canary yellow and lime greens seem to be the most popular colors. Every so often Jared spots a teal stall or a violet tent. Out on the other sides of the main aisle are smaller stalls and tables, with less detailed set ups or necessities to sell their stuff. 

At the end of the main aisle, opposite of the entrance, awaits a sprawling seating ground. 

Well, it’s not so much a seating ground as it is a sandy clearing where someone decided to prop up some empty paint buckets and tires for chairs. The decorator at the Museum of Modern Art would die at the sight of this. He’d probably call the Times first, to get the word out, but  _ then _ he would certainly keel over.

“You’re lucky, she doesn’t make this all the time,” Jensen says over his shoulder, leading Jared towards a cluster of overturned buckets underneath two large beach umbrellas. “You ever had Garifuna food?”

“Uh, no.”

Jared discovers rocks of all shapes, sizes, and capabilities of hurting his feet hidden underneath the sand. Something definitely alive and vengeful flies into his hair and, before leaving, zips past his ear, causing him to squeak in shock. The sun won’t stop its relentless torture to his skin, and, to make things infinitely worse, Jared is all sweaty by the time they sit down. 

None of the elements bother Jensen.

He simply hunkers down and opens up each container. He doesn’t bother to close the containers once he’s done serving himself. Insects and small children could get into the food and ruin everything. Worse, Jensen doesn’t even care that Mrs. Durand didn’t even give them plates; he tears off the lids of the largest two containers and hands one to Jared. 

“Okay.” Jensen takes a hunk of something yellow, all mashed up. “We’ve got plantains here, the mashed kind. Then we have plantains here again, the fried kind, also my favorite.” Food balanced on his lap, Jensen scoops from each container without hesitation. “This here is tapou--banana, yuca, yautia, and coconut soup. Oh, here’s hudutu. You have to try that.” 

None of it smells or looks completely terrible--Jared has had far worse dinners for far more money and trouble from Michelin star restaurants in Manhattan’s financial district--but the spread doesn’t look familiar either. At least, not enough to be able to compare it to anything. All he has is Jensen’s word.

“Hudutu,” Jensen continues, “is coconut soup with bluefish. Great fish. Mmph, and here’s her specialty. Smoked neck bones with bananas and yucca. Here, try some.”

Nearly flailing backwards, Jared puts his hand up. “No,” he blurts out. “I’ll try it… just... “

“Uh huh.” 

“I, uh…”

“What? Are you allergic to bananas?”

Brighter than one of the crimson umbrellas they sit under, Jared’s face adapts a shade of pink, then red, then bright, bright, bright red. Jensen seems to be expecting an answer back any time soon, which means Jared snaps back into the real world. 

“...bananas,” Jared sighs, keeping his voice down. “Well, it runs in the family you know, and I… I….”

Almost done with his first plate, Jensen licks a smidgen of coconut soup from his fingers. “Bananas what?”

“They uh… well…”

“If they don’t turn you into the Hulk, I’m not impressed.”

“They go right through me!” 

“Huh?”

“Oh, fuck no. I’m not saying it again.” 

Smirking, Jensen takes a big bite of mashed plantain. “So,” he murmurs, “what you’re saying is that you’re human. Wow. You know, I knew you had to have some kind of physical flaw. Glad to know it’s from bananas.”

The urge to knock Jensen over surges through Jared, only to be tempered by the fact that Jensen drove here and it’s at least fifteen miles away from the village. Jared could naturally find his way back using his charm, but with his luck on this floating rock, he would prefer not to risk it. Especially when he’s already sunburned and still slightly jet lagged. So, Jared decides to do what he usually does when Lindy chooses to be particularly difficult: Jared ignores Jensen. He picks up his styrofoam lid and pushes past the initial squick of using his fingers to scoop out small portions of food. 

“Hmm.”

“What?” Jared grumbles, annoyed by the lack of tableware and napkins. Or drinks. Or service. 

“You went for the neck bones. I didn’t think you would.”

Humidity begins its sluggish yet hell-bent ascent over the market. Jared hopes his hair doesn’t frizz from lack of product. All of his proper showering and grooming supplies have yet to be dug out of Box Mountain. 

Breathing in uncomfortably warm and heavy air, Jared replies, but he can already feel his speech slowing down. “I eat lots of different food.” More could be said, but words remain difficult when the humidity insists on squeezing the life out of every living thing. That and the food is delicious. While yes, something in Jared’s head screams when he eats plantain out of the palm of his hand, he’s hungry. And for a while, as they eat their fill, conversation ceases. 

Silence seems strange during a meal, but not completely unwelcome. 

Pressure to devise clever stories and witty comebacks lessens, until all Jared can feel is the sweet stickiness of plantains on his fingers and a light breeze teasing the hem of his shirt. 

This moment is okay.

Jensen collects their containers--all completely empty after being passed back and forth--and stands to dispose of them. Jared notices the muscles in Jensen’s legs working as he pushes himself off the tire. His legs are toned. And covered in a wisp of hair the color of sand. Eyes naturally leading up, Jared also notices the presence of Jensen’s stomach resting in his lap. Standing, his middle flattens out, yet it remains in a different way. 

Risking a reminder not to stare, Jared steals small glances. 

Is it okay to comment on Jensen’s size, even in his own head? Size is size, right? No. Not in Manhattan. Not at NYFW. Three seasons ago, backstage at a small event in Chelsea, Leopold nearly suffered a heart attack after discovering that his Gucci embroidered jeans no longer zipped. Luckily, Lindy had been there and saved the day with a little bit of petroleum jelly, duct tape, and inspirational Britney quotes.

“You look like you’re thinking real hard.” Jensen returns with two glass bottles and holds them out for Jared to make a selection--one lime green and the other a rich violet. “That or you’re constipated.” 

Jared’s nose scrunches immediately in response to the mention of digestive problems. He doesn’t bother with an audible reply, confident that his expression conveys the appropriate amount of disgust. He chooses the lime green bottle, since it looks similar to a cocktail one of the West Side bars makes. The drink tastes sweet, but lacks the carbonation Jared expects. He stares at the bottle in his hands to avoid potentially staring. 

Last summer, he flew to Paris, where he stayed in a lovely, posh apartment in the 8th arrondissement, within walking distance of the Louvre where he had a string of admirers meet him for casual dates and expensive lunches. When he tired of tourists, he met Lindy in Capri, where they spent their fair share of time in boutiques and trendy cafes. Jared loved the Marina Grande, plus the beach, and then all the dark, intimate clubs just off the square. Lindy suggested a change of scenery once the boutiques gave out and off they went to Quisisana. They rounded out their summer with a quick visit to Cortina, then Rome, and finally, back to Paris. 

There had been exquisite parties, sleek limousines, dazzling jewelry and tables and tables of decadent dishes laid out for those lucky enough to have received an invitation. And between Jared’s connections and Lindy’s persistence, they were always lucky enough.

One of Jared’s favorite outfits had been a fortunate find in Rome--a Corneliani suit. Distinctive, elegant, and flawlessly tailored, it gave him distinction that led to the press swarming him at dinner. Was he a Prince? American tycoon? The cousin of a Duke? The suit had fit so well. And it was a deep, Mediterranean blue, crafted out of fine wool, linen, and silk. But where did he stash it? It is out of season, but thin lapels are still in, so perhaps with some minor adjustments it could be worn again. 

Or he could go back to Rome and seek out that shop. 

“I get it now.” Jensen’s voice intrudes on Jared’s mental map of Rome. 

Grumbling, Jared snips, “Get what, exactly?” 

Jensen collects Jared’s now empty bottle, ready to leave the market and head back to the village. 

“You just look constipated all the time.” 


	12. Chapter 12

Floating rocks should have the decency to provide flawless weather. 

Something along the lines of temperatures in the high seventies, blue skies, plenty of sun… 

After spending some time in Manhattan--seeing and being seen at their usual haunts so as not to be forgotten or missed terribly--Lindy secured a brief trip to Ibiza before the holidays in New York. Social and professional engagements kept them tied to Manhattan through the winter, but a little fun off the coast of Spain would help them endure the season. 

Ibiza is no floating rock. 

Brilliant, naughty nightlife, yoga retreats, and endless hotels with minibars floating in their expansive pools, Ibiza provided it all. Jared had once heard of a marketplace in Ibiza, but who needed to go there when every hotel worth its salt had excellent chefs on staff and twenty-four hour room service? 

From the Port de Sant Miguel to the Playa Cala Salada, Ibiza on the island treated them fine start to finish.

“All right,” Jensen hollers above the roar of his Jeep, “end of the line. I gotta get back.” 

He makes no attempt to stop smoothly in front of Jared’s cottage. Lurched forward in his seat despite the seatbelt--which doesn’t seem to do anything at all--Jared lets out a squeak. This is nothing like Ibiza. There seem to be no adequately paved roads, no boutiques, no theaters, no bathhouses, no fountains in village squares, no resorts with Egyptian cotton sheets. Just Jensen and his filthy Jeep. And the two small bags of groceries Jared purchased that he’s supposed to cook himself on that horrible camp stove next to the sink where he’s been washing his hair because for some ungodly reason, the shower is outside.

Jared opens his mouth to start a lecture on safe driving, but the sight of Box Mountain alters the course of his complaints.

“Who’s going to help me move my stuff inside?!” Dark, unfriendly, inconvenient clouds emerge, obvious in their intent to destroy Box Mountain and all of Jared’s stuff inside. “What kind of movers don’t actually move what they’re moving inside? Who just leaves it there?”

Sighing, Jensen shifts gears into park. He glances over at Box Mountain, then back at Jared. “You know, you could have moved stuff in little by little instead of waiting to do it all at once.”

“There’s no way I could move all of that by myself!”

“So I’m the one who’s supposed to help you with your stuff?” Jensen leans back into his seat. “It’s fixin’ta rain, and I gotta get back to make sure roofs are patched for folks…”

Quickly descending from the Jeep, Jared smiles. “Great! So if we  _ both _ move stuff, it’ll be done that much faster! Turn this thing off. You’re polluting the place.” 

The grocery bags become the least of Jared’s worries. Several large boxes contain his most precious finery. Of course they risk damage being boxed up and sitting in the sun all day, but rain would be absolutely intolerable. No amount of dry cleaning or tailoring can fix water damage. And then there are his shoes. Leather sitting and soaking in rain? No. It cannot happen. 

Jensen lifts one of the largest boxes without much of Jared’s help, requiring assistance inside, as in, instructions on where to place the box. Since Jensen makes it look so easy, and Jared wouldn’t want to get in the way, Jared focuses on smaller portions of Box Mountain. Within twenty minutes, three quarters of Box Mountain take their new residence in the living room. If he’s doomed to stay indoors while it rains--or whatever else the floating rock has to dole out--then he might as well pass the time unpacking. Serious questions pass through Jared’s mind. Is there any chance he packed that pair of sandals? The strappy ones he got from what’s-his-name in Munich? Weren’t they the comfortable pair, or is he thinking of the Armani sports sandals? 

“Yo!” 

“What?!” Jared yips, trudging back outside. “I have a name, you know!” 

Several expressions flit across Jensen’s face in the span of two seconds. “Right,” Jensen grumbles, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “I’m done providing free manual labor for today, thanks.”

“But there’s just a few…”

“Jared.”

“...more.”

“No.”

“At least help me move this chest?” 

Two steps away from the Jeep, Jensen tosses his hands up in the air. “Who brings a  _ chest _ to an island? Did you not cram enough clothes into those boxes?” In his moment, he stomps over to the antique chest and yanks on one of the handles as if it were a common piece of luggage. “I bet,” he growls, “this is your collection of vintage bowling balls, isn’t it?” 

In a rush to steady the delicate chest, Jared blurts out his response. He grasps the handle opposite of Jensen and strains to haul it backwards. “I don’t… have to… explain myself to you! And the… contents of… this chest are none… of your business!” 

“Oh,” Jensen huffs, “you think that, huh? Well I’m the one moving this damn thing… ow!” 

Jared missteps, causing Jensen to knock his shoulder against the doorway. “Sorry!” 

“Whatever!” 

“You’re going to drop it!” 

“I’m gonna drop it?! I’m the one lifting most of this freakin’ thing!” 

“Yes,  _ you’re _ going to drop it! Hey! Be careful!” 

“Or what? You got bodies in here? Because that sure as hell would explain some shit.”

Four steps away from the living room and the chest begins to rock back and forth in their precarious hold. Jared’s arms shake from the effort of lifting and trying to keep the chest level. “I’ve told you, it’s none of your business! And how rude of you to even ask.”

“Oh yeah, because I’m the rude one here.”

“Yes, yes you are, because I don’t need you snooping around my things…”

“Nuh uh, last straw there. I quit.”

“Don’t let go!”

Too late.

Jared takes his hands off his side immediately, to prevent being hurled to the ground with the chest. Having suffered an abrupt stop after swaying in their hold, the chest lands with a spectacular thud. The lid pops open one second, and bubble wrap spills out all over the hallway floor the next. 

“Really? This some kinda joke? If I find something I shouldn’t be finding, I don’t care what your reasoning is,” Jensen starts, kneeling down to the floor. “I got a community to take care of and I’m not gonna tolerate shit being brought here so you can ‘have a good time.’” 

Lid in his hand, Jensen pushes the chest back, setting it upright again.

“Be careful!” Jared gasps, already trying his best to hide one particular item from Jensen’s view. 

Unfortunately, his best isn’t fast enough.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.” Jared holds it in his arms, against his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Is that… what the…”

A crack of thunder causes Jared to act. He shoves the item in Jensen’s face, holding it with both his hands. “THERE. Are you happy now?!” Red Chicken, the stuffed animal in the shape of a chicken, appears to the outside world in all his slightly faded and lumpy glory. “I got Red Chicken when I was seven and I can’t really sleep well without him, but there was all this stuff on the chest so I couldn’t get him out until now and I think you broke my chest!” 

Blinking, Jensen refrains from speaking for a moment. He stares at Red Chicken. 

“You named him Red Chicken.”

“Yeah,” Jared murmurs, hugging Red Chicken close. “So?”

“...so.”

“...”

“I’m not sure what that says about you.” Jensen runs a hand through his hair. “Or the fact that you brought an empty chest with you from New York to the middle of the Pacific Ocean.” Another round of thunder, this time more insistent, prevents Jensen from exploring these facts further. He steps over the trail of bubble wrap and pauses in the entryway, looking outside. 

Jared follows, clutching Red Chicken. Manhattan is no stranger to storms or downpours. There was one afternoon last fall when a storm rolled in during rush hour and he was caught right in the middle of it. Of course, his Brooks Brothers umbrella wasn’t on him at the time, and hailing a cab was almost impossible.

This rain bears very little similarity to its Manhattan relative. 

Pounding on every available surface, rain drops form a fierce collective. They pour down with such force that they appear to be falling up. 

It’s going to be hell for Jensen to drive back to the village now. 

“Uh.” Jared clears his throat. “The chest is an accent piece.” 

Jensen leaves without another word.


	13. Chapter 13

The storm does more than interrupt a night of beauty rest. 

It proves that cottages on this floating rock were not properly built to withstand the weather. Annoying drops of water landing on his nose wake him up at around five. Since there are no viable solutions to the situation at such an ungodly hour, Jared scoots towards the middle of the bed. At six, another leak in his bedroom rouses him awake, this time in the corner where he’d stashed a few boxes of clothes. He trudges over and covers the boxes in sheets of newspaper he found in the nightstand. 

All that’s left is to learn to live with the incessant  _ drip drip drip _ . 

Over and over, Jared tosses and turns. Thunder reaches out to clap him on the back every ten to fifteen minutes. Working together to ensure a night without REM sleep, the thunder and rain don’t leave until almost ten. He seizes the opportunity to sleep more, attempting to find safety in his all-time favorite dream: the one where he wins an Oscar for best score. There’s Channing Tatum presenting the award. Oh, and his Aunt in the front row, shining like a comet, clapping the loudest in the entire venue. Invitations to every party, soiree, and intimate gathering flutter into the pockets of his exquisite tuxedo. 

Arrangements must be made. He has  _ got _ to see Lindy about hiring an assistant for his stylist. 

An overwhelming urge to pee cuts through Jared accepting the gold statue from Channing. Listening to rain all morning has forced his bladder to choose: get up now or regret it forever.

Jared abandons Channing and Red Chicken, barely making it to the bathroom in time. 

Bleary and cranky, he rolls back into bed, squealing in shock when he lands in the wet spot. 

“Some wet spot,” Jared growls, intent on scooting and ignoring as according to precedence. Unfortunately, his stomach issues its own growl, similar in threat to the one his bladder just made. 

Once again, his organs make the final, painful decision to pry himself from bed. It’s not a mattress or frame combination that  _ he _ would choose for his apartment, but it allows him to be horizontal and somewhat comfortable--that has to count for something. 

If Lindy was here, he’d have something brilliant to respond to Jared’s horizontal observation. 

Red Chicken tries his best to cheer Jared up with his adorable little eyes. It works and Jared rewards him with a prime spot at the kitchen table. Breakfast becomes a meal that would make the chefs in Manhattan cry. Jared attempts the camp stove and succeeds at lighting it, but he can’t entirely control the flame’s intensity. And there’s no way he’s going to fiddle with the compact propane tank that could create potentially more dire problems. He breaks open two eggs over a pan, scrambles them on high heat, and roots around for something to add. 

Cupboards are nonexistent. It’s as if someone came in here and said, “Remove everything that’s useful.” 

The stove top sits on a table, with a shelf underneath for storing pots, pans, and containers. But that’s it. Counter space? Minimal. Miniscule. Storage? The shelf. Where are his Shaker cabinets, stainless steel appliances, farmhouse sink, marble countertops, and white stone backsplash? 

Where is his favorite brand of frozen, gluten-free waffles? Cage-free eggs? Organic oranges? 

Red Chicken wisely does not comment on Jared’s abysmal meal: burned scrambled eggs, slices of tomatoes, two pieces of dry toast, and something that looks like a cross between a mango and a lime.

Longing for familiarity, he ignores the dishes and cleanup in favor for unpacking. Being surrounded by comforting things will help. It has to. It always has. He starts with smaller boxes. The first box contains a small amount of accessories, a few of which he slips on just to feel better, like his David Yurman sapphire anchor bracelet and his Versace pendant necklace. Nothing matches, and Lindy would be horrified to see Jared wearing these things without proper attire--without even having showered yet! 

Thirty minutes later, surrounded by a total of five empty boxes, Jared surveys his work. 

That Brooks Brothers bag doesn’t look right in this place. And his gold Gucci lion’s head ring doesn’t seem to shine as much in such inadequate lighting. 

Okay, so maybe this hasn’t helped. 

The accoutrements on his arms and wrists jingle as he tries to shake off the foul mood that has wrapped itself around today. To think that he has to unpack all of these boxes by himself. This wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere in New York. 

Jared resolves to take a break after this next box. 

“Oh.” Brushing aside packing peanuts, Jared sighs at the sight of his one and only photo album. The very first picture stares at him--this one taken at senior prom. What was his date’s name again? Kylar? Skylar? Kyle? He hadn’t been a particularly interesting or engaging date, but, when he arrived for the evening he was cooperative. Jared fixed his hair for him and quickly swapped out that awful Gucci knock off tie. 

On the next page of the album sits a black and white photo of him, his mother, and his Aunt. Nana took the picture. She wanted one last picture of them on the porch before Jared started high school in New York. He’d be back in Los Angeles for the winter, and business often brought Aunt and Nana out to Manhattan, but she acted like he was going to the North Pole or something. And he had kept his promise of going to Milan with her during Thanksgiving. 

Nana captured the simplicity of that moment. She has an eye for such things. The lighting on the porch highlighted his Aunt’s highlights, the silver buttons on his mother’s blouse, and the breezy quality of Jared’s smile right then and there. 

He should call Nana. 

Except, he has no signal on this floating rock.

Lyrics from his album stumble through his head--cacophonous and jarring. No. That’s not right. The words are fine. The music is fine. Producers were involved who told him with confidence that this was the right mood, tone, and style to top the charts. They wanted pop-lite and he delivered pop-lite. It’s all okay. Nothing needs to be changed. But then why is he here? What if he swaps out a few words, here and there? Speeds up or slows down some of the tracks? People want to dance. Jared wants to dance. He also wants to sing until his diaphragm expands and his heart thunders against his chest--until his spine tingles. 

Gospel music from the road works its way into the cottage, slipping itself behind Jared’s thoughts.

_ I found Him _

_ He made me _

_ Feel alright _

_ I found Him _

_ I found Him _

_ I found Him _

_ I found the Lord for myself! _

Yearning. Mourning. Praising. Clap, clap, clap. Exalting. Shouting. Pleading. All of it in perfect, delicate, frustrated, passionate unison. 

“HEY, I’M NOT KNOCKIN’ AGAIN! YOU WANT FOOD OR NOT?!” 

Flinching, Jared shuts the photo album. He stomps over to the door--somewhat dressed in a pair of shorts Lindy called the peek-a-boos and a tank top. 

Div marches right past Jared the second he opens the door. 

“For some reason,” Div grumbles, headphones resting over her neck, “my mom has taken it upon herself to feed you. Don’t expect this kind of service all the freakin’ time, yeah?” After setting a large blue bowl next to the camp stove, Div leans against the fridge, arms folded over her chest. How she can wear cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and an overshirt without passing out in the heat remains a mystery. She runs a hand through her short hair and looks around. “This place is a real dump.”

“Thank you!” Jared huffs, though he’s not sure if he’s agreeing or deflecting. “...and, I, uh… your mom didn’t have to do that.”

“Course not. You’re a stranger. She don’t have to do jack shit for you.”

“I said that.”

“Ch’yeah, but do you  _ know _ it?”

“Well, thank you for stopping by,” Jared mutters, fixing his hands on his hips in an official get-the-fuck-out stance. “I’m sure you have pressing matters to attend to elsewhere.”

Div flicks her headphones back on and walks past Jared, easily maneuvering past the forsaken chest in the hallway. Her sneakers allow for noiseless steps. She’d be next to invisible if it weren’t for…

“Hey!” Jared takes a few excited steps forward. “What kind of music is that?”

Turning around, hands on the doorframe, Div quips, “What kinna question is that?” 

With a roll of his eyes, Jared sighs. “I mean, who sings it?”

A barely noticeable movement in Div’s legs clues Jared into a larger picture. This isn’t only music. It’s a soundtrack. He knows only snippets of what gospel is: call and response, dominant vocals, clapping and foot stomping as rhythmic accompaniment, and varied metric schemes. But that’s not what it is  _ here _ . 

“Pastor T.L. Barrett and the Youth for Christ Choir.” Div’s eye roll rivals Jared’s. “We good or you wanna keep playing twenty questions? I gotta go on my run.” 

_ I found Him _

_ He made me _

_ Feel alright _

_ Yes, I do! _

_ Say it again! _

_ I feel alright _

_ He’s been so good _

_ Been so good _

_ So good! _

_ Hey, hey, don’t you know _

_ That I found Him? _

Words careen out of Jared’s mouth with none of the smoothness of those lyrics. “I’ll go too.” 

Her eyes take another wave towards the heavens. “Man, you even know what you’re doin’? I run three miles every single day.”

“I usually run five.” 

Well, that’s not entirely true. He usually runs two every day, and on the weekends, Lindy forces him to run five. Sometimes Lindy will join him, but Lindy doesn’t sweat when he runs and it makes Jared so damn irritated so he’d prefer to run in circles alone. But. Choirs. Tambourines. A thrilling, euphoric keyboard riff. 

Hands tossed up, Div relents. 

“Whatever! But you better keep up! I have no time for city folk runnin’.” 


	14. Chapter 14

Teenagers these days have no common sense.

The run from Jared’s cottage to the center of town consists of three rough, half-assedly paved miles. Foliage, nature, and the relentless heat of the sun contribute to a run more difficult than it has any right to be. For all of its fucked up sidewalks, construction, and aggravating amount of tourists in the way with their maps held out ten feet in front of them, any jog in Manhattan is better than what Jared endures on this floating rock.

Div took pity on him at the halfway point and forked over her phone and headphones. 

And though the music helped, it did not prevent sweat from dripping down Jared’s powder blue Valentino tank top. He can feel sweat in places he never sweats--without being in a bathhouse and doing some other physically demanding activity. His hair falls out of the carefully swept up ponytail he had started out with. Strands of it hang limp against his neck, surrendering to the circumstances. 

As for shoes, he found a pair of New Balance running shoes buried in a box marked, “Extras.” They still hurt his feet, more so than breaking in any new pair of Jimmy Choos. 

To keep from admitting defeat to Div or the damn road, Jared repeated the names to all his favorite and most beloved brands. After another mile, he devised another strategy: to name one piece of clothing he’d swear to buy once back in Manhattan. Burberry: a gorgeous leather detail cotton Gabardine, regency blue trench coat. His original Kensington trench is by no means frayed, but it is black, and black just feels too heavy on the eye. Brunello Cucinelli: a two button navy blue blazer, with that gorgeous four-button detail on the cuffs. Never a bad idea to acquire a new blazer, especially tailored at the Cucinelli boutique, where all the tailors speak Italian. Prada. Shoes. Louis Vuitton. Sunglasses. Pierre Balmain. Jeans. Thom Browne. Cashmere cardigan. 

“Hey!” Div waves, right in front of Jared’s face. “We’re here. The run is kinda over, you know?” She holds out her hand. 

Unable to gather his thoughts, Jared relinquishes his hold on her phone and headphones. The reality of their jog sets in once again. A sharp pain in his calves causes a sudden inhale, almost a gasp. Why did he forget his sunglasses? 

“Uh, you’re okay, right?” 

“Uh huh…” One thumb up provides the rest of that sentence. 

“Right. Guess I can just do this then, and you’ll be fine.” 

One slight shove to Jared’s shoulder and Jared sways dangerously to the right. Pride keeps him erect, though so does the good fortune that a strong wind doesn’t flit by. It’s possible that Jared wasn’t as prepared as he thought for running… three miles in the heat. 

“City people,” Div sighs heavily, suddenly the most put upon teenager in the entire world. “I got errands to do before my Ma finds me. Go sit in Mrs. Park’s store. She’ll put you up.” 

“Put me up,” Jared pants, “or put up with me?” 

A sly smile peeks out from Div’s crusty exterior. “Both.” 

Only slightly unsteady and in pain, Jared hobbles over to the suggested shop. A fountain decorates the town square, similar in appearance to one in a smaller, off the tourist path in Milan. However, like the one in Milan, Jared can use this one as a marker. No matter what, he can’t really get lost here. First of all, there’s not that much to get lost in--maybe fewer than ten buildings occupy the center of town. Second, the layout makes things incredibly simple: the shops circle the fountain, with one main road down the middle. 

Not a single building in town boasts more than two stories. 

Or, it seems to Jared, air conditioning. 

Walking into Mrs. Park’s store has the benefit of shade at least, and, even more importantly, a bench inside near the front. Jared’s calves scream a few more times before he makes it over. With no one at the single cash register, and Div’s good word, he assumes it’ll be okay to take a load off for the moment. 

“Yip yip yip yip yipyipyipyipyipyip!” 

From under the bench, a white ball of fluff appears, violent and enraged. The poodle snarls, snapping its deadly teeth, its entire compact body vibrating from the intensity of its frenzy. Jared shrieks and jumps onto the bench. His fluffy attacker falls short of biting Jared’s ankle. No doubt that any bite would be ghastly, possibly even fatal.

“Yipyipyipyipyipyipyipyip!” 

“I’m sorry! Shoo! I can’t leave if you don’t let me!” 

“Yipyipyip! Yip! Yipyipyipyipyipyip!”

“Down! Uh… go! Fetch! Away with you!” 

Negotiations fail. 

Until the head of a broom appears and gently sweeps the monster away from the bench. 

“Ach, move, Percy! Go to the back.” Mrs. Park continues wielding the magical broom against the beast called Percy. Percy reacts with a snap towards the bristles. “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Park grumbles and digs around in the front pocket of her red apron. “Go get the ball. Go.” 

A bright blue, polka dotted ball wins the fight against Percy. Tiny nails skitter on the tile floor; the intruder standing on the bench drastically drops in importance. 

Extending a hand to Jared, Mrs. Park smiles. “Haha, best security system around. That no good eolgan-i next door only has a cat. Hah, what’s a cat gonna do, eh?” 

“Uh…”

“You okay, huh? You look not okay.”

“Oh. Uh. I’m okay.”

“Sit, sit. Rest.” She waits for Jared to sit before sweeping the front area. “So, you settling in yet?” 

Some semblance of rest sinks in by sitting down. A miniature fan clipped to the front window blinds provides a hint of relief from the heat. Jared wipes away a layer of sweat from his forehead, feeling better for it for exactly two seconds. He makes the executive decision to fix his hair in hope of more relief. “Trying to. I’m still kinda jet lagged.” 

There’s not much dust to sweep at the front. The shop looks clean and well-stocked. He expected only the basics here, but a general glance at the store proves otherwise. 

“Water--drink more water. I notice Americans never drink enough water. You know our water’s good. Clean. No need to worry. No, you worry when you go next door.”

Just a little worried, Jared asks, “What’s next door?” 

Bleak, black energy casts over the entire store. Mrs. Park grips the handle of her broom. Her words fall, deliberate and weighty. “Mrs. Yee.” 

Groups of children wearing sports jerseys invade the store before any mention can be made about what Mrs. Yee does or sells. Mrs. Park--with Percy under her arm, having returned to the front to secure the perimeter--snaps into action. “Ah, Chanta, remind me before you leave I have a package for your momma. Ay-eh, where is your coach, huh? Too many of you, too many. Junior! Put that down.” 

Four children flock around Jared, surprisingly uninterested in touching and displacing random candies and sweets throughout the store like their peers. Jared recognizes the two smallest children from the hike: Min and Mikey. The twin teenage girls, however, are entirely new faces to him. 

“So  _ you’re _ the foreigner,” teenage girl on the left says, hey eyes making quick work. “Huh. Annie said you were blond.”

“She did not,” teenage girl on the right quips. “She said he’d look good blond, but I don’t see it.”

Min manifests an almost turquoise colored leaf from one of her pockets. Proudly, she presents it to Jared. “It’s pretty, huh? I found it all by myself.” 

“You were sposda be playin’ goalie,” one of the kids near the register interjects. 

“Stay out of my fairs, Adeeza!” Min’s eyes water. “I thought it was pretty.”

“Blond would wash him out.”

“We won’t know unless we try.”

“Is it true that models get to keep the clothes? You are a model, right?”

“Linh, of course he’s a model--look at those cheekbones.”

What. The. Hell?????????

“You know who else has nice cheekbones?”

“You can ignore my sister.”

“Oh, sorry, guess I’ll spell it out for you then, since you have such a crush on him.”

“Do you think I could make it as a model? Do you like your agent? Do you fly for free to Paris for shows or do you have to pay? Do you know Tyra?” 

“J.... E… N…”

“Shut up!”

“Make me!”

“This is why we didn’t win today, Linh, you have such a big mouth!” 

“Ouch! Lan!”

“Oh!” Min frees the remaining contents of her pockets: bottle caps, paper clips, rubber bands, two seashells… “I forgot!”...and one tiny, wiggling turtle plopped right into Jared’s lap.

Chaos erupts. Tyra would have a field day. Jared screams. Children scream. Percy transforms into a hellhound, sailing from the register to Jared’s crotch. Quick thinking saves both Jared’s crotch and the turtle; Jared leaps back into his original position on the bench, standing up, one hand in the air holding… 

“EUW,” Jared cries out, and instinctively chucks the poor turtle into the air like a shelled football. 

A confident hand catches and saves the airborne reptile. 

Mikey, quiet until now, shouts, “DIEGO.”

Jensen does not immediately release Diego to the hands of small children. He checks the turtle, somehow knowing the procedures of doing so. Jensen’s attention then turns to Jared. 

“What in the hell did you think you were doing? You could’ve killed Diego.”

No lack of ooooooohs echo from the crowd of youthful onlookers, some of the loudest originating from the teenage twin terrors. Even Percy pauses his yipping to witness the drama. 

Standing on the bench, Jared towers a full foot above Jensen. Power surges through Jared, similar to knowing that the Calvin Klein models got wasted the night before an important shoot and will most definitely show up looking tired and bloated to the set. 

“...I  _ passed  _ him to you,” Jared snaps, hands on his hips. “Don’t yell at me if you’re a lousy catcher.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen sets Diego down on the register. He then begins to organize, collect, and gather up the hoard of invading children. “No, ettage ner, ell'inel sonempo. Tim, put that back.” Quick, necessary actions begin; Jensen kneels down to several of the smaller children and starts wiping faces and hands with wet naps from his shirt pocket. Once again, Jensen has cast an ill-advised vote for a loud, red, shirt--along with cargo shorts that are more grass stains than fabric. 

And he  _ still  _ smells.

Even with the drama created by one flying turtle, Jared can’t ignore the scent. It repels him more than the sight of some of those wet naps turning unfathomable shades of green and beige. Jensen’s the only one on this floating rock who possesses and maintains such a smell. 

“L'inare. Moisas mundra résima cor,” Jensen rumbles, speaking to Min. “Diego comen lostom et hintra incope, eh?” He wipes down her hands, fixes the orange jersey over her jumper, and places a hand on her shoulder. “Ces una bella.” 

One part of the chaos settles, even if that smell remains. Jared can’t explain it, other than he finds it offputting, but in a complicated way. Not foul. Not unpleasant. Just overwhelmingly  _ there _ . 

“We’re not done talking,” teenaged girl on the left says with a smile, in a tone that could be a promise or a threat. 

“Yeah, you are.” Jensen points over to the kids. “You can take ‘em all back home now.”

In the background, Mrs. Park--accompanied by Percy--hands out apples and cartons of milk. Both teenagers attempt to change Jensen’s mind and fail. In a single file line, the swarm of children marches out, led by Lan and followed after by Linh. One child manages to break free. Min doesn’t reach any higher than Jensen’s hip, but she holds herself with poise. She tugs Jensen’s jersey. 

“Will you put Diego back?”

“Right after I pay Mrs. Park,” Jensen answers. He bends down and nudges her cheek. “Go on.”

Min stops by the bench before running back to the group. 

Jared blushes, suddenly aware that he’s still standing on the bench. Towering over Min doesn’t bring him the same satisfaction when it’s Jensen. He peers down and locks eyes with her.

“Bye, Jared,” she mumbles, shyer than when she spoke to Jensen. 

“Bye.” He attempts a small wave. “...Min.” 

Crickets chirp once Min leaves. 

Or it’s just Diego, though he appears to be on break. 

Jensen clears his throat and pays Mrs. Park. He hands her a few bills over Diego. “You hitchhike to town today or did you find a magic carpet in that accent piece of yours?” 

Stepping down, Jared smooths out his tank top and begins rearranging his hair, though there’s little hope for it anymore. “I decided to take a jog this morning, thank you.” 

“Uh huh. Looks like it.” 

“W-well what about you?” Jared folds his arms across his chest. “You don’t look like you’ll be walking the runway anytime soon.”

“Nope,” Jensen snips, scooping up Diego. “Not a lot of fat people walkin’ those runways.” 

A dilemma strikes Jared about as hard as the rain fell last night. Does he ignore that comment? That’s not what he meant. But it’s how Jensen took it. But what if he says the wrong thing and fucks up even more? Why does he care? This man slighted Red Chicken. Fuck. If he was on an actual runway, he’d have no problem delivering a comeback worthy of press releases. Instead, he’s in Mrs. Park’s shop, sweaty, slightly dehydrated, and earnestly hoping that someone will drive him back to the cottage because he already ran three miles here.

“Grass stains,” Jared blurts out. “You can be as fat as you please, but no designer worth a damn would let you be seen in public with those grass stains. And look, your shirt’s wrinkled to hell. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was inside out.” 

Holding Diego in one hand and his wallet in the other, Jensen freezes. Jared doesn’t dare to breathe. 

“He got you,” Mrs. Park chirps.

Jensen glances over at her, then back at Jared. “Yeah. Guess he did, huh?” He walks over from the register to the bench. Jared tries not to breathe. Plenty of alphas live in Manhattan. They’re less abundant in numbers than betas and omegas, but Manhattan provides a good mix of people. Maybe that’s it. Jensen has to be the only alpha on this floating rock. 

“Don’t you got work to be doing?” 

Uh, yeah. 

But Jared’s not about to admit that to himself, so he’s definitely not going to admit it to Jensen. 

“I am doing work. Running helps me write.” 

“All right.”

“...are you the coach?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool, I guess.”

Jensen’s expression reflects a multitude of things Jared can’t translate. One eyebrow raised, Jensen murmurs, “Well, I’ll let you get back to running.”

Someone might think Jared has never interacted with people before based on his brilliant display of eloquence. “Piano.” Good. That’s a start. Jesus. His heart’s beating faster than it was keeping up with his legs, gospel music, and the road. “Is there a piano I can use?” 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know,” Jared grumbles, “sometimes I just like to stare at one--for playing, sheesh.” 

“Oh, you  _ play _ .”

“Yes, I play.”

“I bet you play Mary Had a Little Lamb real good.”

Jared’s next words hiss out colder than December in Manhattan with a cheap Burberry knock off. “Show. Me. A. Piano.” 


	15. Chapter 15

Never in a million years would Jared have guessed he’d be playing piano with a turtle resting near the music stand. Then again, he also never expected to know a turtle named Diego, either.

Atop the piano--which Jared has judged as a decent enough Yamaha grand--Diego surveys his new surroundings. His head bobs slightly and he squints from the lack of light in the empty town hall. Jared tests a few keys for his benefit and Diego’s. Sound doesn’t seem to bother Diego as much as being thrown across a storefront. Makes sense. Gnarly appendages make an appearance, providing a stark contrast against the sleek Yamaha.

Taking his time, Diego ambles forward a few inches and plops down.

“You are so weird,” Jared mumbles. “Ce une tortue bizarre.”

Town hall can hold up to three hundred people, however, only about twenty or thirty chairs are kept out at all times. The layout of the room is simple: rows of chairs divided by a walkway leading up to a podium and table. To the side rests the Yamaha and a set of drums. Though it looks as if no one has played the Yamaha recently, a few tests of its keyboard proves that it’s been tuned and kept in good condition. Of all things to find on this floating rock, a Yamaha grand piano was not on Jared’s list.

Then again, neither was Diego the Turtle.

“You need sheet music or something, maestro?” Or this infuriating assistant village leader.

Bosendorfer. Fazioli. Yamaha. Steinways. Bechsteins. Bluthners. Jared favors Bosendorfer for the extra notes, down to a major 6th. These black keys give the whole range unequalled resonance due to sympathetic vibration. Steinway creates attractive pianos, but their build remains too standard for the exceptional price tag. Fazioli can be considered the Lamborghini of pianos, though they require constant attention. Jared has played on all major grands released by each brand.

This Yamaha plays light. He adjusts the pressure of his fingers on each key, closing his eyes to amplify his hearing and focus. First, he plays a snippet of Chopin, Prelude in E minor Op. 28 No. 4. Then Pachelbel, Canon in D, of course. Next, Mozart, a smattering of pieces, and finished with a tease of Liszt to truly flex his fingers.

The song he decides on begins in C minor, with the use of a pedal, accentuating the first piercing notes. Jared opened the lid to the Yamaha--for a louder, more resonant sound.

Sanders taught voice and piano, taking over in Jared’s sophomore year and continuing through to senior. They would have kept working together, but modeling intervened. It seemed more pressing to follow through with H&M, which paid and kept him under contract. Most models find themselves working as independent contractors, in the door one day and out of it next. He put hours and hours into music as a teenager--mostly classical training--but the desire to follow it into a profession never appeared. Well, not until last year, when Lindy mentioned something about it.

Pop-lite doesn’t often make room for the swirling motifs and whirlwind of unison notes from Chopin’s B-flat minor Sonata. Incredible, but no one on the production end asked Jared about his music background. Perhaps that was an oversight. His oversight, too.

C minor bows to A to E back to C minor.

No need for sheets.

Pitch. Volume. Tone. Expression. Excellent musicians can play in public, in front of people, in everyday circumstances--to a turtle near the music rack to the orange jersey wearing assistant village leader in the front row.

Breathing in, Jared feels his diaphragm expand. The piano chords reflect his voice: intimate, alluring, and insistent.

“Come on skinny love, just last the year.” Breathy, shivery, Jared adjusts both his throat and fingers to provide misty emotional intensity. “Pour a little salt we were never here.” A tinge of desperation, pierced by ascending notes. “My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my. Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer.” Breathe in. Breathe out. The pedal pushes the volume higher. “I tell my love to wreck it all. Cut out all the ropes and let me fall. My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my…”

His favorite piano resides in Cher’s living room. He knows its bass notes, with their tight slam and pleasing sound. The scale still plays smooth and pleasing after all these years. Bright, rich, consistent, the Steinway and her gentle guidance encouraged him to climb the seat and practice when he was seven.

“I told you to be patient.” Pressure and tone increase. “I told you to be fine. I told you to be balanced. I told you to be kind.” Neither instrument, his voice or piano, overstep the other. They blend and enhance the overall sound. “Come on skinny love what happened here? Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere. My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my. Sullen load is full, so slow on the split.”

Diminuendo. Just for a second. Then cold, soulful, climactic anger.

“I told you to be patient. I told you to be fine. I told you to be balanced. I told you to be kind. Now all your love is wasted, then who the hell was I? Now I’m breaking at the bridges and at the end of all your lines.”

Decrescendo--taxing, demanding, and understated. “Who will love you?” Jared sighs. “Who will fight? Who will fall far behind?”

Now.

“Come on skinny love,” Jared’s voice fills the room. It occupies every seat and every space. It grips tranquil air, cutting loose his vocal range in one haunting, urgent breath. “My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my. My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my.”

It’s the piano that begins it and the piano that finishes it.

He could be with the Steinway. Or on stage with Sanders. Or in the music hall he’d visit in Chelsea every second Friday of every month, alone and in need. Or on a Fazioli, dressed in his navy Gucci double-breasted blazer, warm candle and stage lights set dim.

Or here. Staring at a turtle. Sitting in a mostly empty town hall, his hair wild and sweat trailing down to the dip of his collarbone, a hurtful tightness in his chest.

 


	16. Chapter 16

“...I’ll buy you lunch.”

“What for?”

“For the concert.”

“I only played one song.”

“Do you not want me to buy you lunch?”

“No.”

“So why argue?”

“I’m not arguing. I’m questioning.” 

“I’ll let you tell it.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m not arguing.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”

“...you’re surprised, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“I’m not all auto-tune.”

“I never said you were.”

“I mean, it has its uses. You know, the Cher-Effect and all.”

“That’s Cher.”

“You know her?”

“Let’s just get lunch. Grab Diego.”

“And do what with him?”

“Show him a good time--hand him over.”

“I’m afraid I’ll drop him!”

“You  _ threw _ him earlier.”

“That was reflex.”

“I’ll--”

“--let you tell it, I know. Thanks. Oh my god. He’s moving inside his shell.”

“Turtles do that.”

“Eee.... there! Didn’t drop him!”

“Well, that’s another surprise today. Alright, it’s a half mile to Mr. Yeun’s. You up for a walk or wanna take my Jeep?”

“It’s hot.”

“Thanks for the weather update.”

“It’s  _ really _ hot.”

“When they find me, dead from whining, I hope you’ll be there to tell everyone: it was  _ really  _ hot.” 

Jared climbs into Jensen’s Jeep, perching on the passenger’s seat. He shoots a smile at Jensen and buckles himself in. “Okay.” He shakes his hair out of his tattered ponytail, then runs a hand through it. “I’ll let you tell it.” 


	17. Chapter 17

Mr. Yeun collects stray cats. 

Rather, they collect around him.

For strays, they collectively behave well, though as they sit down for lunch, a flock of them circle Jared in hopes of seizing a piece of fried mackerel. As Jared raises his fork from his plate to his mouth, a gray tabby boldly leaps onto his lap; he yips and nudges the stray off, hoping not to get scratched in the process. Jensen makes a comment about Jared not throwing the tabby across the room. Jared finds his mouth too full with mackerel and rice to sufficiently make a response. He attacks his side salad of pickled radish and cucumber next, then takes another piece of mackerel from the ceramic serving dish in the center of the table. 

Most residential homes on the island follow simple layouts, just like the village itself. Mr. Yeun, originally from South Korea, chose to build his home in a Japanese old-style, complete with thatched roof. His home feels ten times cooler than anywhere on the island. Humidity takes a break from tormenting Jared’s skin and hair. Mr. Yeun brings out plates and lunch. He spends most of lunch insisting that Jared and Jensen eat as much as they please and announcing his opinions on international architecture and history. He also scoots a few strays away, but they actually listen to him. With one gentle, “Ah ah,” the strays back off. 

By the time Jared can’t eat anymore, the strays start to meow their displeasure. 

“Help,” Jared squeaks, leaning towards Jensen. 

Laughing, Jensen shakes his head. “No way. Just don’t move. They can’t see you if you don’t move.”

“This is no time for Jurassic Park jokes.” Jared sits on his chair with his knees drawn up to his chest. “So many eyes…”

“Shoo, cats.” Mr. Yeun saves Jared from a Jaws meets Cats scene. Just like that, the strays scatter, though they circle the perimeter. Percy was intimidating, but maybe Mrs. Park is wrong about Mrs. Yee’s cat. “You boys want some to take home? I made too much.” 

Jensen answers with a pat to his stomach. “I can’t think about leftovers right now. Thanks for havin’ us.”

“And you, Jared?” He collects their plates and utensils. Both forks and chopsticks were provided; Jared used a fork, though he noticed that Jensen used chopsticks. 

“Uh…” 

What’s protocol here? Would it be rude to accept? Decline? Dinner parties in Manhattan typically sent everyone home with a small snack handed out by catering assistants. And any restaurant would automatically package up leftovers in microwave-safe containers. But would he be taking advantage of Mr. Yeun? Their host welcomed them into his house for lunch--a longstanding Thursday tradition between Jensen and Mr. Yeun--and has taken care of Jared, the extra guest, without complaint. The mackerel might not reheat well on the camp stove, but it will be an actual meal until he can get back to the market. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jared catches a subtle nod from Jensen. What’s  _ that _ mean? Yes, take the food? Yes, you’re right, don’t take the food? 

“Yes please,” Jared practically gasps. “Thank you.”

Mr. Yeun sends Jared and Jensen home with two containers each, along with dessert--Gyeongju bread, a thin layer of dough filled with dense, sweet red bean paste. Jensen deposits Diego in Mr. Yeun’s garden. The cats won’t bother him. Much. 

They leave after a round of hand-crushing handshakes. 

The ride back to the cottage has no gospel music, but it’s good all the same. 


	18. Chapter 18

_ [acoustic guitar] Don’t let me darken your door/ That’s not what I came here for/ [aside] No, it’s not what I came here for/ _

_ And I won’t hear you cry when I’m gone/ I won’t know if I’m doing you wrong/ I never know if I’m doing you wrong/ _

_ A constant reminder of where I can find you/ A light that might give up the way/ Is all that I’m asking for/ Without you I’m lost/ But my love, don’t fade away/ _

_ So I watched the world tear us apart/ A stoic mind and a bleeding heart/ You never see my bleeding heart/ And your light’s always shining on/ And I’ve been  _ **_traveling_ ** _ oh so long/ I’ve been traveling oh so long/ _

_ A constant reminder of where I can find you/ Light that might give up the way/ Is all that I’m askin’ for without you I’m lost/ Oh, my love, don’t fade away/ Oh, my love, don’t fade away/ _

Gritty, jagged, sharp guitar. Sparkling, dynamic, ebullient piano. Delicate, elegant, otherworldly violin. Music takes shape in his head, hands, and on the teasing page. These are words he’s never gushed before. In a manner so light, yet so desperate.

_ [violin, guitar] Oh, how the breakers roar./ They keep pulling me farther from shore/ Thoughts turn to a love so kind/ just to keep me from losing my mind./ So enticing, deep dark seas/ It’s so easy to drown in the dream./  _

_ Oh, and everything is not what it seems/ This  _ **_life_ ** _ is but a dream/ Shattered illusions that hold your spirit down/ [INSERT line here, extend]/  _ **_Breathing_ ** _ and  _ **_moving_ ** _ are healing/ and  _ _ soothing _ _ away/ all the pain in life  _ **_holding_ ** _ you down/ [break] _

_ Bone breaks and heals/ Oh, but heartaches can kill/ Shatter illusions that hold your spirit down/ Open up the door and look all around [REPLACE]/  _ **_Breathing_ ** _ and  _ **_moving_ ** _ are healing/ And  _ _ soothing _ _ away/ All the pain in life  _ **_holding_ ** _ you down/ Bone breaks and heals/ Oh, but heartaches can kill/ From the inside, so it seems/ Oh, I’m telling you it’s all a  _ _ dream _ _ / It’s all a  _ _ dream _ _ / _

Commanding drums.

_ Woke up in/ Woke up in New York City/ Lying on the floor/ You  _ _ gonna _ _ know my name by the end of the night/ You  _ _ gonna _ _ know my name by the end of the night/  _

Heady, mythological bass.

_ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ I don’t care, no/ Cause you  _ **_don’t_ ** _ care, no/ You gonna know my name/ You gonna know my name/ Get lost in this city trying to find myself/ I went up with different versions/ Came down somebody else/ I  _ _ know _ _ it ain’t right/ but it’s all in my head/ _

_ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ Bright lights, big city going to my head/ _

_ You gonna know  _ **_my_ ** _ name/ _

_ You gonna know  _ **_my_ ** _ name/ _

**_You gonna know my name/_ **

Jared falls asleep in the living room, curled up on the couch, holding Red Chicken to his chest. 

He misses New York City.


	19. Chapter 19

A pen finds its way into Jared’s hand five days later. 

It sucks, because he does not want to write. He wants nothing to do with music. 

The internet would be a welcome distraction, if he had it, but since he doesn’t, he applies his energy to Box Mountain. Hour after hour pieces of himself emerge. He finds the knee-skimming, slim fit Fendi shorts he wore to the New York Film Festival last year. And the silk, crimson Hermes neckerchief he bought for the NYC Wine & Food Festival. Gray anything is on his list for the fall season. Everyone has been choosing a more subdued palette, accented by choice accessories like the neckerchief. Texture sets everyone apart, but Jared had appointments with his favorites: Missoni, Berluti, and Neil Barrett. 

At the bottom of a box, Jared finds his Balmain suede baseball cap. 

With it on, he grudgingly scrawls lines that have been more persistent in his head than the humidity around him. 

_ I forgot how good this could feel/ close my eyes holding the steering wheel/ Spilling my confessions, midnight on the 405/ The way we get into each other’s bones/ Take me home, I’m dying/ _

_ If I could only taste your lips in this adrenaline/ I’d never leave your bed/  _

_ I’d never leave here/  _

_ Ever since you pulled me apart/ Dreams come easy, I just disappear and you/ Let’s stop all this talking/ _

_ I’d never leave your bed/ _

What the fuck.

_ I can’t stand it/ When you’re not with me/ I fall at your feet/ You’re not the answer/ I’d never leave here _

_ I’d never leave your bed/ _

His skin itches. It feels too tight. Like he’s just been playing Liszt for hours and hours on end without a break for the overworked tendons in his hands. Ridiculous double notes--octaves, thirds, sixths--sustain a velocity in his skin that bleeds into his muscles. This is not pop lite. This is something different and different is not what he needs. Almost an entire week has passed and the amended album has seen only halfhearted progress. He can’t control any of his own dynamics or tempo. 

What was the point in coming here? Why can’t he do this in Chelsea? Or Los Angeles?

Why won’t his cell phone get signal so he can hear Lindy’s reports on the parties and outings he’s missing? There was something going on this week at the Museum of Modern Art and some scandal always happens at a MoMA event. 

But here he is. Washing his hair in the sink every morning because he refuses to shower outside in the middle of nature. 

_ There will be days/ when the sun don’t shine/ Don’t be afraid/ Life is unkind/ You can let go of the pain if you choose to/ Time slips away/  _

Fuck.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

“Fuck,” a voice echoes.

Flinching and nearly falling off the couch, Jared stands up. Is someone trying to break in? It’s almost noon. Do robberies happen in the middle of the day? 

“Div, move your ass.”

“Des be, chos pon egrais--move  _ your  _ ass, Dali!” 

“That’s what you said last night.”

“Pfffffffft.”

“Hey, I got a gig tonight.”

“A gig makes it sound like there’ll be more than five people there.”

“Shut up. At least I’m doin’ something. Faire étans, yo lo hombli.”

“Whatever. Where you squatting?”

“Mrs. Yee’s.”

“So you’ll play for  _ six _ people.”

“You know what they say about smart asses--they got fat asses.”

“You like my ass, don’t lie.”

“I have to. Your mom’s cooking is too good to break up with you.”

“Hey!”

“Man, I bet space aliens can hear you whining.”

“...shut up!”

“You sure he’s home? Looks pretty empty to me.”

“HEY JARED!” Div’s voice rings out, directly into Jared’s ear drum. 

If he answers the door, he’ll get to meet Div’s girlfriend. But if he doesn’t answer the door and keeps stewing in his own frustration, well, something magical might happen to solve all of his current problems.

Div beats Jared to his decision. “Hey! Your door’s unlocked. You better be decent.” 

Thankfully, Jared decided to get dressed this morning. The vote in his head passed by a narrow margin. He thought it might be more productive to walk around the cottage dressed--ignoring his responsibilities--instead of walking around naked. He would have settled for being naked and having his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but the heat has other plans.

“At least you knocked,” Jared grumbles, now sitting upside down on the couch, his feet in the air. “Sorta.”

“Well, no offense, but I don’t need to see you naked again. You met my see a dude naked quota for the decade.” Hair slicked up in a careful wave, Div seems to be in a good mood. She stands over Jared, peering down at him. “Are you doing some bizarre sexual act New Yorkers invented?” 

“I would be so lucky.” 

“Bitter, much?”

“Frustrated.” Crumpled pieces of paper around the room support his statement. Jared nods over to Dali. “Care to introduce me or are you just gonna stare at me?” 

With a snort, Div bends over, closing the distance between her and Jared. “My Ma sent me over to invite you to a cookou… wow, you reek.” 

There was an incident earlier, though Jared prefers to keep those details to himself. He thought a spritz of cologne might help him feel more at home, more grounded, and less desperate to find a jacuzzi bathtub. Unfortunately, his grip on the bottle wasn’t as firm as he thought, so he ended up with about five or six sprays of the stuff. The upside to this is that the incident occurred in the kitchen, 

“You weren’t kidding,” Dali whispers. “He’s a wreck.”

Slightly dizzy from being upside down, Jared attempts to shift positions. “I can… hear you. All five of you.”

Not whispering, Div replies to Dali, “Duna trais, extei haquers.”

“Ooh.” 

“You have a shower, you know.” 

“It’s outside.” Jared manages to curl onto the couch cushions once again. “I… I can’t.”

At this perspective, Jared can see his visitors as they are, instead of the five blurry, upside down people they seemed to be a moment ago. Dali gives a salute, standing confidently next to Div. She’s a foot taller than Div, wearing a white tank top that highlights the tattoo sleeves on both her arms. 

Palm pressed to her forehead, Div sighs. “Look, I’m hungry. I’ll help you with the shower crap later. Dali, this is Jared. Jared, Dali. Great. Now, let’s go.” 

“A pleasure,” Jared says, attempting to get up for a handshake. 

Dali takes Jared’s hand and helps him up, lifting like it’s no big deal. She laughs and claps him on the back. “Ah, it’s nice ta meetcha finally. Whole town’s been talkin’ about you.” 

“Please tell me we’re not running there today.” 

“Uh,” Dali snickers, glancing over at Div, who rolls her eyes. “Honey, I don’t run.” Hands on her hips, chest forward, Dali adds, “If I ran, I’d lose an eye. You’ve never had 44DDD’s, huh?” 

Head cocked to the side, Jared answers, “...not that I can recall.”

She laughs and nudges Jared’s shoulder. “Thank your lucky stars then. You ever seen a black woman from the Bronx prepare a meal for fifty people on a moment’s notice with a fifty dollar budget?” 

“No?” 

“Well, what’re we waitin’ for? Let’s get going.”


	20. Chapter 20

Anthony Bourdain did a special on the Bronx.

Beyond that, Jared doesn’t know anything about it. He could make a train, cab, car ride over, but Manhattan rarely gives him cause to leave.

Dali is short for Daliea, a name bestowed on her by her Spanish grandfather who thought it’d be nice to make a Cervantes reference in the name of his first grandchild. He wanted Dulcinea, but was overruled. Still, Daliea and Dulcinea are not too dissimilar. Div was the first person to call her Dali. In the year and a half they’ve been dating, Dali has made it her mission to tattoo as many Salvador Dali references on her arms as possible. She threw in a few windmills to appease her grandfather, because everyone knows that Cervantes is _the_ best novelist ever. Yep.

When Franco took over Spain, Vergara, Dali’s grandfather, knew it was time to get the fuck out.

“He hauled his cookies out here,” Dali laughs, steering her Toyota Camry away from rougher patches of road. “On the way, he met my grandma. Picture her: this gorgeous, tall, broad shouldered black woman with a sense of style she learned from Celia Cruz. Man, she loved sequins and silk. And she loved my granddad, this goofy little white Spanish dude with a lisp and gray eyes. They met on the ship after it stopped in Cuba, and crossed the Canal and the ocean together.”

Dali’s grandparents are not unique in their transplant status. More than half, Div chimes in, of the permanent residents on the island are not native born. Everyone, if not themselves, has a cousin or a relative born somewhere else but then decided to live here. And everyone’s reasons for leaving their place of origin remains deeply personal.

“My granddad knew Federico Garcia Lorca.” The village props into their view. “And, if you know anything about Garcia Lorca, you know what happened.”

Ignorance presses at Jared, over his skin, then underneath it. It makes him uncomfortable. Frustrated. A lot like before as he stewed in his living room.

“He was shot. Execution style.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, man. When Lorca told my granddad to get out, my granddad got _out_ . He was going to settle in Cuba, where he’s got family too, but then Cuba didn’t look too good either. That’s why my grandma got _out_. They missed a ship to Mexico--can you imagine, ha--and considered Australia or here. They put the word out and this place answered first.”

Div’s parents settled in the Bay Area a good twenty years ago, after word from family members that California was better than Manila. They could make three times what they’d make in a week in two days--with nicer weather and an actual schoolhouse to send their kids. Her mother, father, and oldest brother endured a sixteen hour plane ride and six months of living with various cousins in a two story house.

Then, they all got deported.

“It was my Tiyo Amado,” Div grumbles, carrying out a large aluminum-covered pan from the backseat. “He put a curse on my dad.”

“All Filipinos think they’re cursed. Here you go, Jared, lues femas ardigo.” She hands Jared a ceramic pot filled with rice, orange in color from saffron.

“Um… what?”

“Lues femas ardigo,” Dali repeats. “It means, ‘something for you to bring.’ You don’t show up to a shindig without something to bring.”

A blush sweeps over Jared’s face. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.” He could have brought a single mango from his kitchen. Or the last egg. Or a candle warmer.

Amused by Jared’s expression, Dali waves the matter off. “Don’t worry about it, eh? Just don’t mention curses around Div’s family and you’ll be fine. And remember--whatever her cousins tell you in Tagalog, don’t repeat it. Trust me. It would be no good.”

“Like you don’t believe in curses, Dali!”

“I don’t. Well, except the curse of your face.”

Two steps into Div’s backyard and the cousins draw forth. Then the tiyas and tiyos and neighbors and kids and… Jensen.

Green eyes assess Jared. “Well, guess you managed to survive your first week. You seem all right. You survived Dali’s driving, anyhow.”

From the buffet table, Dali flicks Jensen off.  “Jared, honey, bring that rice over here. Div, did you see where I put my tongs?”

“For a second I heard thongs,” Div cackles. “I put them in your apron pocket ‘cas I knew you’d forget ‘em.”

Handing off the rice opens Jared up to being introduced to a large audience of people. He recognizes Mrs. Durand and Mrs. Park, both pleased to see him, and of course, Ma.

“Ha! I knew it! I knew you come here.” Ma taps his shoulder. “I heard you went to Hye’s house for lunch, but not here. You know, I make mackerel.”

“...uh,” Jared coughs, turning red.

“Yeun’s,” Jensen murmurs.

Before Ma can continue to interrogate Jared, Dali calls her over, requiring assistance with the professional meat smoker previously tended to by a tiyo. Ma chases the tiyo off, and gives Dali room to work with the star of the show: a roast suckling pig. How does a black woman from the Bronx serve fifty people on a fifty dollar budget? Like a boss. Like old school New York. Like a Michelin chef, except better. She tells jokes, shares stories, and offers repeated warnings to anyone who thinks about throwing off her groove. Slicing, dicing, carving, Dali performs. It is no less wonderful than it is delicious. Nothing goes to waste. Portions of the pig get deep fried and made into cuchifrito, served crispy and hot.

Piled onto lime green plates, the pig makes its debut. Alongside it are generous servings of rice--green beans, potatoes, olives, and beans cooked into it--and of course, platano. More and more side dishes appear as containers open: tomato and onion salad, greens, hard boiled eggs, yucca, and slices of plain white bread.

For most, conversation does not stop once the food is served. Elders sit at a table, with some younger folks mixed in, Div says just to make fun of youth, and others are welcome to take a seat elsewhere in the family’s extensive backyard. One of the cousins starts a fire pit and another cousin hauls over more chairs. People from the neighborhood drift in and out.

Life becomes central to the smoke from hot coals, the physical feeling of fullness, and the sounds of languages mixing without any meaning being lost.

Side by side, on a log by the fire pit, Jensen and Jared eat their fill.

One of the tiyas collects theirs plates and swaps them out with dessert plates. From what Jared can tell, there’s rice pudding, flan, tres leches, churros, sweet rice cakes, and butter cookies. He samples everything, as he did with dinner, but unlike dinner, he only finishes half.

Div announces that the batida machine pulled through, and they have mamey, papaya, and banana.

“Oh god,” Jared groans, holding his stomach. “Why did I wear these shorts?”

Jensen smirks and holds his own stomach. “Should’ve worn your fat pants, like me.”

“Trade with me. C’mon. Then I can have some batida.”

“Hell no. Look at you. It’d take three of your shorts to cover one side of my ass.”

“C’mon.” Jared slumps against Jensen’s shoulder. “There’s papaya.”

“You’re just trying to get into my pants.”

Sitting upright again, Jared scoffs, “For the sake of batida, Jensen. C’mon.”

As he speaks, Jensen watches Jared’s expression closely. “I already unbuckled my belt, what more do you want?”

In a feat more stunning than finding a pair of Jimmy Choos at seventy percent off, Jared continues saying The Right Thing at the Right Time. His mother and Cher would be proud. “Whatever. I unbuttoned my shorts two bites in.”

And without missing a beat, Jensen quips back, “Rookie.”

Cousins Sade, Kim, and Antony bring over cups filled with something that is not batida, but twice as sweet and with one hundred and ten percent more liquor. Now that he’s finished eating, residents take the opportunity to ask Jensen questions. Can he come over and fix the sink? Is the building permit for this deck approved yet? Could he put in a good word to the village leader about having a mid-summer bonfire? When will they have a chance to take the kids on another field trip to the market? Is it too late for their child/family member to join soccer? What’s up with Mrs. Yee and Mrs. Park?

That last one Jensen deflects as politely as possible.

As the evening progresses, groups break off to do their own thing. Jensen forces Jared to his feet and they offer help to Div and Dali. Div almost accepts, but Ma cuts her off, commanding the young people to, “Go, go! Have fun! No time in life to wash dishes.”

“ _You_ have time in your life to wash dishes, huh?” Div huffs, refusing to let go of a stack of plates. “No, Ma, if I don’t help then there you are later that I didn’t help.”

“Go!”

“Ma!”

“Bier mun entiem de fergue lusint génons! Go, go! I’m old and close to death. I can do the dishes.”

“I keep begging you, literally begging you, not to say that! Depligna que affe, eux bia!”

Dali slips in between the two women and acts as referee. She coaxes Div over to the fire pit, noticing that the cousins have brought out a set of Polynesian drums. With a gentle push, Dali manages to pry Div from her Ma. Ma pats Jared, Jensen, and Dali on the shoulder before ordering them away.

A tiyo hands Dali one of several guitars available.

She strums a few chords, tuning, before she shouts out to Div, “Hey, batida-face, how about we show off our skills?”

“You mean _my_ skills.” Div bumps shoulders with a nearby cousin. She stands at the drums, playing out something quick and daring.

“Just for that, we’re singing.”

“If you want to torture people, sure.”

“They’re used to your voice, Div, they know what to expect.”

“Fine--A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh…”

Running a hand through her now loose hair, Dali releases the world’s greatest, most put upon sigh. “Not that song, batida-face. C’mon, you can follow my lead, like usual.” The guitar interrupts Div’s reply, energetic and bright. It draws attention, but her voice keeps it--even, melodic, rich, and warm. “My friends they wash the windows, and they shine in the sun. They tell me wake up early in the mornin’ sometime, see what a beautiful job we done.”

Div slips in, her voice a light, resonant contrast. “I say, let’s put on some tunes, sing alone, do little all day… go down to the riverside, take off our shoes, and, wash these sins away.”

The drums kick in, retaining spontaneity and improvisation, lifting everyone else up.

“The river said,” Dali starts.

“La, la, la,” Div finishes.

“Shame on you. When the summer comes, everything’s in bloom and you wouldn’t know it’s there. The white folks like to pretend it’s not, but their music’s in the air.” Laughing, Dali plays a little closer to a cluster of younger cousins. They watch her hands in fascination, glued to every expressive movement. Her body tells its own story.

“La, la, la, shame on you.” The drums steady out and Div tries to lower her voice to Dali’s pitch. “You can feel ‘em dancin’, la, la, la.”

Swinging around towards Jared and Jensen, Dali experiments, her fingers flying in a way that would make Liszt downright jealous. For the next line, she steadies out, drawing back to the original beat. Tiyas clap along and tiyos light citronella candles all around the backyard. “My friend Tanner, she says, you know me and Jesus, we’re of the same heart. The only thing that keeps us distant is that I keep fuckin’ up. I said come on down to Chicano City Park an’ wash your blues away…”

Dali rotates past Div just in time for Div to belt out, “Beautiful ladies walk right by, you know, I never know what to say!”

“Oo la la la, shame on you!”

Pitch, volume, tone, and expression. Improvisation. Experimentation. Syncopation. The challenge of form, the grasp of texture through sound.

Before Jared can pick it apart further, a guitar makes its way to Jensen, who hesitates, but gives into the energy of maintaining the rhythm. The song transforms without hesitation or hurry or harm. Someone rings a bell, the instruments reach a newer, intense volume. Div leads with the drums, introducing a new voice--filled with twang, heady, hard, rough, distinctly baritone.

Jared soaks it up like paper does ink.

That’s exactly how he hears Jensen.

“Basically, it’s just like papaw says/

Keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine/

Just another enlisted egg/

In the bowl for Uncle Sam’s **beater** /

Sailin’ out on them **high** seas/

Feels just like being **born** /

That first port call in Thailand/

Feels like a pollywog turning nineteen/

They’ve got king cobras **fightin’** in boxin’ rings/

And all the angels play Connect Four/

Seems like a sailor’s **paradise** /

But turns out to be a **bad** dream/.”

Just a moment and Dali takes over, full force, extracting chords, prying out sounds from her guitar that make the fire in the pit hiss. Fueled by the spark, Jensen continues.

“When I **hit** the **ground** runnin’ in Tokyo/

From Kawasaki to Ebisu/

Yokosuka, Yokohama, and Shinjuku/

Shibuya, Ropongi, and Harajuku/

Aw, from Pusan from Ko Chang, Pattaya to Phuket/

From Singapore to Kuala Lumpur/

Seen **damn** near the whole **damn** world/

From the inside of a **bar** /.”

It isn’t just his voice--it’s his stature, his size, his presence. He holds himself as tough as the chords played on his guitar. The muscles in his shoulders and arms conduct the tendons in his hands, striking out electrified bluegrass, masterful guitar licks, and something altogether darker and seductive.

“I got sea stories/

They’re all **true** /

Might seem a little bit far-fetched/

But why would I lie to you?/

Memories make forever stains/

Still got salt running through my veins/

I’ve got **sea** stories/

And my shellback, too. **Ha**!/”

The instruments take a step back. Jensen takes a step forward--clear.

“Sometimes sirens send a ship off course/

Horizon gets so _hazy_ /

Maybe get high, play a little Golden Eye/

And if you get **sick** and can’t manage the kick/

And get yourself **kicked** outta the Navy.../”

His voice makes room for Div, swinging back in through a gradient of sound, full of grit and sparkle, pounding, intensifying in fervor. She builds up for Jensen to roar out the next line.

“You’ll spend the **next** year **tryin’** to score/

From a **futon** liferaft on the floor/

And the next **fifteen** tryin’ **to figure** out/

What the **hell** you did that for!/”

Full throttle range.

“But flyin’ high **beats** dyin’ for **lies** /

In a politican’s **war**!”

 

Pure music.

Pure performance.

Everything Jared’s stunt at Intime was not.

Everything he is capable of but tossed out for commercial demand.

Discomfort messes with his head.

He walks home, already breathless.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Tale lanien de uneurs du lo unical ca; ment cion, po, estons les Buen - Bres. Ima d'ando, des rione prompla, a per la no y etios cur. Ah! Ter un lestar louron. Crer vondolda gormis ces nor proque ficiur par concré da de se mit Ordrad Mair, cabbed. Les y a pecrid, quest cur le racet podit pede signes sosina codrai a eta aber cetiegli. Thel las excel un qui, dei matique sus de-mossa: pustro dan, soloso nosino cet chompo ai, socied le sur de vilieu, sero entest e ogiunde. Jed ado fes, cas de voit si cie mis re el ter de mucara voi sil algo. Es de je favalui os no et te! A lesto muda; se erit sactur luiver pas sionti, no huctio, parons est prell'unque pal que lacil niosa, tessemble! On noseme conabuo pes, viravou cla Confer no esteur. Pienda de dello; pas, mence murofum onde sé salmad rémos; que le para. Etent vonfil pella to querra au e de 15 Franda. En turado. Precti; a instio, guoire, ma grado la devien es, ettes delast des dés fierni de ners fuen tragiun ellas va sancie so que d'Inde la amoint. La de fute un preaud ina; autieu dei su atiervi.

La alhalle ibles rir, nichaco, ograve fre lasse corembi.

Encho foineu décile a la inauta.

Dipido de losont lasas vé comos.

En granablé de dandue noir affors devant haitan ton sants. Parde sant, renne a re me compora. La de la aust seintiquo unestin signat, let re d'ent ceppar etride! Une fais sants hit lesse tratio, toitud. Aractin, impla vé dait ciun de landan que passem dantar lescell'uscont quivizia va ner.

Bahil calque décel molger, chessi par démend uner de des gemero.

A ce votes von que bribre.

D'amoit effein.

Effein.

It makes no sense to Jared.

He isn’t upset about it.


	22. Chapter 22

People underestimate Britney Spears. 

Elitists like to pick at her lyrics for being too simple, too shallow. But what’s wrong with straightforward? True, that she’s more of an entertainer than a singer, but she never claimed to be the world’s best vocalist. She is simply Britney. Pop incarnate. She possesses an image that can be molded again and again. A true vessel for groundbreaking, boundary smashing performance, Britney can and has done it all. 

For the next week, Jared spends three hours every day perfecting the dance moves to his favorite Britney videos. Blackout remains the Holy Bible of Pop--utter perfection. He could spend all six weeks on the island listening and dancing to that album alone. 

However, at the moment, he’s too engrossed in the classic, “Oops…! I Did it Again.” 

The sound of the front door being forced open interrupts a step-pivot-step and Jared’s legs turn out in a way Britney would never tolerate in her videos. 

Three people have been admissible to the cottage during this blue period: Ma, Div, and Dali. Pico did drive by and leave provisions, which Jared thanked him for, and Mr. Yeun sent a few containers of mackerel with Dali. Other than that, no one--specifically a no one--has been allowed entry. Jared has passed off his isolation as working, because he’s not ready to admit to anyone that he’s been a dark, angry little rain cloud since the cookout. 

And his remedy so far has consisted of imagining himself with blond hair. Would it really wash him out?

Steps that mean business sound out on the hardwood floor in the hallway. Mid-pivot, Jared catches a glimpse of another obnoxiously colored Hawaiian shirt. 

Standing in the entryway to the living room, Jensen crosses his arms over his chest.

“If you’re here to intimidate me,” Jared grumbles, “you’ve succeeded.”

“Why’re you avoiding me?” 

Damn. 

“I’m not. I’m just. Busy.”

One tawny eyebrow rises. “Dancing in your underwear?”

“I got hot. And this isn’t my underwear.”

“All right.”

“It’s Armani.”

“I don’t own a single shirt I paid more than twenty bucks for.”

“...uh, well, that’s the path you’ve chosen.”

“But.”

“What?” 

Jensen takes two steps forward. His arms unfold, opening that space by his chest and stomach. For the first time since they’ve met, Jared doesn’t catch any scent on Jensen aside from detergent and clean sweat. The absence of that scent strikes him harder than the presence. Grass stains on Jensen’s shorts, shins, and sneakers tell Jared he was out on the soccer field with the kids not too long ago. Nearing noon, it’s a good time to be inside. Still, shade doesn’t block out humidity.

Muted, but urgent, Jensen kisses Jared.

Sonetto 123 del Petrarca. Pour le Piano: Prelude. Toccata from Partita No. 6, BWV 830. 

Instead of piano keys, Jared’s fingers press against Jensen’s chest. And instead of classical music in the background, Britney and her auto-tune tease the situation. 

It’s Britney, bitch.

Anxiety strips down to impatience. Plush lips play rhapsodic underneath Jared’s teeth. He pushes back for more, wrapping his arms around Jensen’s shoulders, pulling in, tipping forward, getting closer. Chest to chest, the feel of Jensen’s weight against Jared drives something tumultuous and wild to the surface of his skin. It listens to the song--more, gimme, gimme, more. 

Strings, horns, violins, piano keys, and the thrum of a guitar drags them into something new. Something like jazz, something simultaneously world-weary and refreshing. Warm, firm hands stray, and they know exactly where to grip. Jared backs into those hands, encouraging, asking for more, daring for more. 

Rhythmic and in sync, they move for the couch. 

Auto-tune drifts away the second Jensen rucks Jared’s tank top up, exposing his chest. Jensen holds himself up, leans down, and embarks on another track. Audacious. Earnest. It flips their tempo, because once he’s kissed his way from Jared’s navel to his throat, the entire album is different. This is with and without structure. Jensen’s fingers press into Jared’s thighs, ass, and chest. His touch presents itself as darker, deeper, and more vivid. Tongue to nipple. Lips to clavicle. Teeth to lips. Hips to hips. 

Something sad slips in the background--crescendo. 

Jared takes Jensen’s right hand and guides it. 

The next kiss works up the level of intensity. Jared gasps, then lets out a sound that reflects his natural range. Some clothes stays on. Some is shirked off. That damn Hawaiian shirt finds a new home on the floor and Jared replaces it with his hands, mouth, and skin against skin. 

The playlist ends and the speakers go quiet.

Grinding against each other, working up to a level of heat and humidity all their own, Jensen settles his weight against Jared. He tests Jared, looking at him, waiting. It’s true, this is new, but even jazz was new once. 

Kiss. Grind. Stretch. 

One arch leads to a dip leads to a push that leaves Jared trembling for focus. Any worry takes a backseat to alleviating the pain. Jensen never forces himself in faster than Jared can take him. Jared gasps as he feels a surge of ambitiondesireneedwantmore. Buried deep, Jensen’s cock applies pressure to nerves that release a raw, uninhibited sensation. 

Stubble scratches against Jared’s cheek.

Barrel-chested baritone washes over every sensation--the feeling of Jensen beginning to move, the feeling of Jared stretching open and pulling him in, the feeling of the couch cushions dipping underneath them. 

“Time and time again, Lord, I’ve been… going through the motion,” Jensen rumbles. “It’s a means to an end but the ends don’t seem to meet.” Soft comfort. Rough hunger. “Ain’t no point gettin’ outta bed, when you ain’t livin’ the dream.” Inhale. Jensen pulls his hips back, and in one demanding thrust, pushes in, tilted perfect, forcing Jared’s heart to pound against his chest. One, two, three strokes like this and Jared’s fingers drag across Jensen’s back harder than he’s ever touched an instrument. Jensen adds more weight, creating added pressure, drawing out harsh, breathy sounds from Jared. 

Fucking into Jared, Jensen bites down on Jared’s neck, claiming a small patch of skin for himself. 

The start of a knot pounds against Jared’s hips. He spreads his legs, angles his hips, and yanks Jensen down for one long, desperate kiss. 

No need for sheet music. 

Jensen works Jared sweaty and voracious. He teases with the use of his voice. 

“Like making a big ol’ pot of coffee.” Jensen bears down harder. “When you ain’t got no cream.” 

Jared lets out a long, slow moan as Jensen knots him. 

Guitar licks. Guitar picks. Memphis soul, New Orleans funk, swamp rock blues.

That bundle of nerves inside Jared gives out. His own voice dips, scratchy and tough, breaking out into a litany of noise without rhythm, direction, or end. Jensen works him through it, fucking him even after Jared comes all over their middles. He tests boundaries and creates a new genre altogether. 

Jared comes again at the swell and pressure of Jensen’s knot. He covers his mouth for a second, tears welling in his eyes, then grips onto the couch. His body tenses, tenses, and tenses, until Jensen licks the line of sweat on the column of his throat. 

Then he justs loses it. 

And Jensen too.

The rush of it overwhelms Jared, hits him like that scent the very first time. Except that scent takes on another life. It drapes over him, in intimate places, with every pulse of Jensen’s cock and knot. Murmurs and moans and gasps push Jared over to another orgasm, completely untouched, adding to the sticky mess on their stomachs. 

Baritone murmurs calm them down.

“That old man upstairs, He wears a crooked smile. Starin’ down on the chaos he created.” 

Tender and easy, Jensen brushes Jared’s hair away from his forehead. 

“He said son, if you ain’t havin’ fun, just wait a little while. Momma’s gonna wash it all away. She thinks mercy’s overrated.” 

These murmurs fit the contours of the album they created.


	23. Chapter 23

There’s no name for the native language as it exists now. It started as a blend of Taglog with what was left of indigenous language, carried over from Elders. Chela started a language preservation project with a few of the remaining Elders in the village. Jensen makes them coffee and tea for every meeting, and he drives those who need it to Chela’s home. No song, arrangement of music, or symphony of notes compares to the sound of those meetings, where the dialect thrives in bursts of Spanish, English, French, Portuguese, and its original roots.

Only the slightest application of rhythm--paired with baritone murmurs--emphasizes the natural beauty of a language created as a quilt.

“Ros del con se re uneaum ourant muchez cel pores desti. Pas prion un situsque la finver lienfin, fa so de cidest-ler, y humie. Déjous au hubrer que ditied no de curse paradu cla yercua. Elveta re menara, antra quer je facto es compar drus gras. Legon dit burran voyespe, da, solesa. Jet coggar ve tion movire dulos gre d'ella…” 

It’s complicated.

Yet simple.

Like a nine track album. Enough to highlight, enough to question, enough to leave listeners messy, sore, and sublimely changed.

They’re a sticky, sweaty mess. Jared peels himself off of Jensen. He wants nothing more than a warm bath, a long nap, and rough, heady kisses chased with a scratch of stubble. Stretching, he allows himself realist connection to his body. The feel of muscles complaining, joints popping, and the intense, satisfying throb of heat over his ass. A look down at his thighs proves what he already feels: the presence of light bruising and a few splashes of his come mixed with Jensen’s. 

Quiet, Jared ties his hair up. 

He turns to Jensen, thinking that he must have dozed off. Green eyes look back at him, matching his question: what now? 

Jared tightens his ponytail, then pulls on it to loosen it just a bit. He doesn’t usually have sex in the middle of the afternoon. And he doesn’t usually let his partners come inside him. It’s a literal pain in the ass to clean up afterwards. And he usually doesn’t spend much time in bed--or wherever--afterwards with his partner, not even Lindy. There’s usually errands to run, appointments to attend, shoots to go to, meals to have, or parties to make appearances at. Or, people just fall asleep.

Of course the island offers none of those distractions.

Until Jared finishes fussing with his hair and places his hand directly onto Jensen’s middle. 

His fingers languidly press into freckled flesh, soft and yielding. Careful, he glances up, trying to translate this line of communication. Has he got it wrong? Is it terrible to try?

Jensen exhales. Like he’s been holding that breath since the very first song of a nine track album.

Jared’s hand rises with Jensen’s stomach. He splays out his fingers, conforming his hand to the shape. Hand settled, Jared casts his attention elsewhere--up to thick, muscled biceps, to freckled forearms, to the rounded, broad slope of chest and shoulders. The anchor to it all escapes proper definition or description: a pair of eyes framed by more freckles and well-earned crinkles. 

Lyrics of a song he’d like to cover appear in his mind, line by line, insistent and prominent. 

It’s forward.

And by no means a promise. 

But it’s the best Jared’s got. No piano, no guitar, no violin, no other sound but his voice--stripped as bare as his body, as raw and new as the bruises on his thighs. “Hold me close and hold me fast, this magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose. When you kiss me heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose.” 

Closing his eyes, Jared lies down on the couch once again. However, he drapes himself over Jensen’s middle. He rests with a sigh, head on Jensen’s chest. It might be a drastic change from Britney, but he continues singing.

“When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom. And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”

It’s definitely forward. 

And by no means definite. 

But it is, maybe, good enough for a start.

“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose. When you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs. Give your heart and soul to me and life will always be…” 

Jared drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> added chapter to smooth things out.


	24. Chapter 24

“Jared.”

“Hmm.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“So am I.”

“That’s my point.”

“Uffff, g’way.”

“No. Get up.”

“Five more minutes.”

“Uh, no.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good for you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Didn’t know you were a fan of dried up come all over your ass.”

“Jensen!”

“Oh thank god. My arm.” 

“Holy… it’s  _ peeling _ !”

“Hey, half of that is you.”

“Euw euw euw euw.”

“Calm down, we can shower, you know.”

“In the sink? I don’t think so. Oh my god. I’m afraid to stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Because why.”

“Because… it’s gonna… it’ll go…  _ sploosh _ !”

“You. Are. Ridiculous.”

“Oh, it’s so easy to laugh at me, huh? You’re never allowed to come inside me again. Ugh.”

“Hmm. But I still get to be inside you, is that right?”

“...maybe.”

“Maybe’s pretty good.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“C’mon. I’ll teach you how to work the shower.”

“I’m not showering outside, especially not like this.”

“Get over yourself. There’s no paparazzi out here, I promise.”

“First: fuck you. Second: I’m a model; I get paid for people to take pictures of me. Third: showers belong inside, away from bugs, plants, and dirt.”

“If you get up and follow me, I’ll protect you from any bugs, plants, or dirt.”

“Will you make dinner, too?”

“Do you even have anything to make dinner with?”

“That’s your problem, dinner man.”


	25. Chapter 25

The shower consists of a few flat rocks acting as a floor, three sections of wooden fence erected to give a semblance of privacy, and a detachable shower head. Grass and pebbles litter the so-called floor, and foliage grows in wild abandon all around, looping through the walls. Nature, wild and untamed, makes disconcerting buzzing, clicking, and fluttering sounds way too close to the sanctity of a personal grooming space. 

Sulking, Jared follows Jensen outside, carrying toiletries and necessary accoutrements in a bucket he found next to the fridge. 

“Pay attention, I don’t wanna hear you showering in the sink anymore.”

Jared huffs, setting down his bucket on the cleanest rock. “I wasn’t actually  _ in _ the sink, you know.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, but a smile lingers. “Okay. The knob is under here. You gotta kinda reach for it.”

“How do I kind of reach for anything?”

“Bend over and I’ll show you, smart ass.”

“Been there,” Jared sighs, “done that.”

“Not exactly. Now--c’mere. You twist like this and pull, but not too hard. You don’t want to break this. It’s a good system, but it takes forever to fix. And always keep the shower head pointed away from you. You’re not gonna know the temperature of the water until it runs, then you adjust it.”

Miraculously, water appears. 

Even more miraculously, the pressure and temperature are perfect. Jensen hoists the shower head up and rests it on a hook attached to the siding. Water sprays out enough for both of them to stand underneath. Jared basks in the first real shower he’s had since leaving New York. The sounds of nature fade away as he concentrates on the powerful effect of clean, hot water. 

Scrubbing his face, Jared draws in a deep breath, and lets it out at the same time he opens his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, pushing his hair back from his face. 

Jensen nods. He stands up straight, chest and stomach forward. Water and muscles outline his form--simultaneously soft and solid. Jared can hear the kind of music that should be playing here: pure pedal steel, symphonic haze, sturdy twang, electric indulgence. 

He’s itching to write it. Play it. Sing it until his voice is shot.

The second his mouth presses against Jensen’s, Jared tells the song to come back another time. This isn’t time for thinking. It’s time for slick, ardent friction from their kisses. For the voracious exploration of Jensen’s back, shoulders, chest, torso, and ass. Jensen tilts Jared’s chin up, exposing his throat. He licks one cascade of water that runs from his jawline to his collarbone. 

Teeth bear down over a sensitive patch of nerves and muscle in Jared’s neck. Jared gasps. His hips push forward and his cock bumps against the firm curve of Jensen’s middle. A tilt of his hips and Jensen shows Jared just how much he returns the feeling. 

Their hands find more places to touch each other than the water. 

And Jared can feel himself wetter than any lube could make him. 

Taking control, Jared wrings a kiss out of Jensen that threatens to end everything here and now. He pries away, moaning, leaning into Jensen--excited, impatient, and shameless. 

Rough hands slap Jared on the ass. 

Jared lets out a yelp, then a low, growling moan, and then a throaty, criminal moan. The same hands spread Jared open wide, squeeze, and slap again. Their breathing might as well create a geyser. Grinding and groping give way to an entirely new level of possessiveness. 

With complete surety, Jared turns around. He places his hands on the siding, keeps his legs spread wide, and presents himself to Jensen. Water finds intimate spaces, but it isn’t about to be outdone. Jensen wastes no time. He lines their hips up, maintains his hands on Jared’s shoulders, Temperature increases at the same moment as pressure. Stretched from before, Jared offers less resistance, though the fit still requires work. The hot, hard press of his cock causes a call and response between muscles and vocal chords. Jared keeps his breathing as steady as he can. In. Out. In. Out. Until he realizes that this is the same rhythmic phrasing Jensen uses--fucking in and out, in and out. All the way in. All the way out. All the way in, uncompromising in intensity, a composition fueled by a steamrolling desire to fuck Jared. 

“Holy shit,” Jared screams, toes curling, fingernails digging into his palms. He holds onto the siding of the cottage for dear life. “I’m… Jensen! Oh my god. Right there. Yes, yes, yes... “

Unfailing in his precision, Jensen pounds against that still sensitive bundle of nerves, made electric by the constant attention. Jared arches and feels Jensen’s stomach push against the small of his back. A solid force of its own, it provides more pressure, more strength, more baritone growls and groans. 

Jared tilts his head back and shudders. Slick runs down his thighs, creaming over the base of the knot forming and pushing against wet, tight muscle. Jared’s body responds to it, pushing out more slick, stretching to accommodate. The water turns colder, and Jared yelps at the sudden change, but Jensen remedies it with distraction; he lets go of Jared’s hips and runs his hands up. Thick fingers circle Jared’s peaked nipples to pinch, roll, and squeeze. Rounded fingertips flick over and over both nipples quick and merciless, mimicking what his tongue might do. 

In a low, gritty voice, Jensen’s voice rises above the sound of fucking. “Do you… really not want me to come inside you?” 

Jensen’s close. Jared can tell by his shortened thrusts and the swell of his knot. 

But no one’s ever asked that before.

“If you don’t,” Jared pants, his own voice raspy, “I’m kicking you out.”

“Heh. Fair enough.” Jensen leans forward. He nips at Jared’s earlobe, licks over the spot, and without warning, bites down on Jared’s shoulder. Jared loses it. His career never allows him to have marks of any kind. But he’s bruised, bitten, and red. Screaming, he comes over Jensen’s cock and knot, gasping for breath as Jensen thrusts his knot inside right at the peak of Jared’s orgasm. 

Leaned back, Jensen displays his own vocal magnitude. Buried, his cock twitches and his knot swells to its full size, heavy, tying them both. But he doesn’t stop there. His hands continue to tease Jared--skimming his chest, neck, torso, and cock. He lets Jared fuck into his warm, firm, wet hand, applying pressure at the base, then circling the flushed head. 

“Hn… hn… I… I’m gonna… again!” 

“Do it.” Jensen slaps Jared on the ass with his free hand. “Come again.” 

This is anything but serene. It’s overpowering, manhandling, thrilling energy.

Jared looks down at Jensen’s hand covering his cock and watches himself come. He feels slick build and release, while his hips suck Jensen in, holding his cock and knot captive, wringing it until Jensen lets out a series of gospel cries. He comes in a steady flow of hot, thick ropes, knot pulsing, cock pushing forward, deeper and deeper, causing Jared to come again. 

Full, sated, and aching, Jared’s breathing doesn’t return to normal for a long stretch of time.

And it’s a good thing they’re in the shower, even if it is outdoors. 

“You’re a mess,” Jensen laughs under his breath. “You ready? It’s gonna go  _ sploosh _ .” 

Jared pretends that the mess bothers him. He hides the weak reaction of his cock when he feels and hears his come, mixed with Jensen’s, run down his thighs and onto the stone floor. He stands on his own for a minute, directly under the showerhead, then gives into Jensen’s gentle insistence to lean on him. 

The shower isn't so bad.


	26. Chapter 26

Jensen orders food--a thing Jared didn’t know could happen on the island.

Of course, the delivery drivers stay for the meal. 

“There a reason we’re eating on the patio?” Div snatches a fork from Dali and plops down. Containers and plates have been passed around, mostly thanks to Jensen and Dali. 

Avoiding the question, Jensen leans over towards Jared, using his fork to point at a few things on Jared’s plate. “Asparagus wrapped in rib-eye beef, salmon and salmon roe over rice, eggplant with sesame sauce, and pickled cucumber. Oh, and there’s eel over here.”

“What’s on it?” Jared peers over, hesitant to try a piece, though it looks good. 

“There’s a glaze on it, made of sake, soy sauce, mirin, and sugar.” 

“Grilled over hot oak charcoal,” Dali adds, putting a small piece on Jared’s plate. “Then steamed, then grilled again. You’ll like it. And if you don’t, at least you tried it.”

Div puts her hand up. “Don’t like it! Then there’s more for me!” 

“Div, you pre-gamed it on the way over here with those bag of shrimp crisps.”

“They don’t know that.”

“Uh huh. When your stomach hurts later, don’t bother crying to me.”

“You’d take care of me.”

“Nope. I’m gonna sit there, eating eel, and cackling.”

“Just don’t cackle with your mouth full like you usually do.”

“Excuse you, but no one tells me how to handle a mouth full of fish.”

“...wait. What?”

Jared elbows Div and laughs. “She got you with the lesbian joke. And too bad, I like the eel.”

Finally sitting down, taking a seat next to Jensen, Dali beams. “You do? Ha! That’s because I made it! I’m gettin’ good at this.”

Their delivery drivers continue to harass each other throughout their meal on the porch. Late afternoon gives way to early evening. Heat and humidity recede, just enough for outside to be comfortable--comfortable enough to stretch out. The sound of ocean waves is nonexistent from the cottage. Somewhere, out on the lawn, insects chirp and the occasional lightning bug illuminates a tiny section of the earth. And the sunset, well, it’s clearer than sunsets in Chelsea, but the sky retains a few shared qualities. This is not so different. 

Glasses of ice cold barley tea are passed around. 

Not too long after, chilled sake appears. 

A breeze moves through, not particularly helpful in cooling anyone down, but it stirs up something bittersweet. Jared closes his eyes and allows the breeze to comb through his hair. He could stay here all night, soaking up alcohol, aching in the best way.

Jensen places a hand on Jared’s thigh, directly above a mark he left before they vacated the shower. 

His touch remains steady like an eighth-note strut, confident, bold. Slightly possessive. Obviously very proud of himself. 

A little drunk, Jared blurts out, “I have no gag reflex.”

Everyone turns to look at him. 

And then, Dali spots it. She points at Jensen’s hand. “Oh my… so  _ that’s _ why we couldn’t eat inside!” 

Grumbling, Div shrugs. “So? What’s that got to do with eating al fresco?”

“Do I gotta explain everythin’ to you tonight, Div?” 

“Shut up. You got me drunk.”

“You’re such a lightweight.”

“Tell me, D.” 

“They had s-e-x.” 

“Oooh.” 

“So they probably didn’t clean up in there.” 

“Clean up what?”

“Oh no,” Dali laughs, shaking her head. “I’m  _ not _ explaining that.”


	27. Chapter 27

Before she carts Div off back to the village, Dali stretches out on the porch next to Jared. They share the space together, alone for the moment. 

“Hey.”

“Hi, Dali.”

“You’re almost as much of a lightweight as Div.”

“Nah. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Count to ten.”

“...no.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I could. I just don’t wanna.”

“Jensen’s packing up the leftovers from tonight for you.”

“He’s so nice.”

“He is.”

“Should I go help?”

“You helping is probably about as useful as Div offering to drive back.”

“Oh, she shouldn’t do that.”

“Nope.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. We just came to kick it with y’all.” 

“It was nice to kick it.”

“I wish I could record you right now.”

“My phone’s around here… I think. But it doesn’t work.”

“You break it?”

“No, the thingy.”

“Ah, the thingy.”

“The signal.”

“You know, there’s a public phone in Mrs. Park’s shop you can use.”

“Percy?”

“Yeah, heh, Percy would be there too.”

“Alright.”

“Jared?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you listen to me for a second.”

“Yeah.”

“No, like, really listen. Sober up for a second, okay?”

“Okay. I’m good.” 

“Jensen’s my friend.”

“Yes.”

“So that means I get to give you the obligatory if you hurt my friend I don’t get mad I get even speech.”

“Oh.”

“That’s it. That’s all I got.”

“It was a good speech.”

“I try.”

“You’re a good friend, too.”

“Ehh. We’ll see about that. C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”

“I can sleep here.”

“Uh huh. I’d let you, but you wouldn’t like me much in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“You ever woken up hungover on a porch? Nope? Well, from experience, let me just say: if you can avoid it, you should.”


	28. Chapter 28

The Bronx visits.

_ Let it top the billboard charts/ for scores/ years a thousand fold/ till everyone realizes/ the truth will go pop,/ the honest and upright/ will be bang in the club,/ lying will only list you/ with the sucker MCs/ Grammys will be overrated/ and oxymoronic/ ghost writing will win Pulitzer/ slang will evoke change/ breakbeats will become elevator music/ car navigation will use/ top to bottom graf walls/ to get you through traffic/ grandmothers will still/ be making music with their mouth Biz/ thugs will finally come out/ and tell the world/ they they are the real/ hip hop masons/ wearing baggy jeans/ under your ass/ will come back permanently/ tattoos will be earned/ dreads will be licensed/ only to the nappy/ the party people will strike/ against DJs using MP3s/ studios will be strapped/ with lie detectors/ rappers will replace/ video hos with their wives and kids/ MC Lyte will be our new Oprah/ the Oscar will go to Lupe Fiasco/ for playing Rakim/ we will wake up every morning/ and pray south to the Bronx…  _

_ \--the future / Lemon Andersen _

 

_ Black like the planet/ that they fear. _

_ If those are stars, and what they make when they pepper the sky, if it is a sky and not a road, is a shape we call spoon, then the sky that is not a road might possibly be soup or yogurt, but we call it a sky (and the spoon of stars has its own name), and in that road of soup is a planet, if it is a planet, and if we call planet was assigned a color ‘something bad might happen to you, so be on the lookout’ and bad had the same color of this planet in America so the color called bad had to swallow the bad, like a black hole, had to make break/s, make tap, and scratch two records together to fire/back, if what fire is is something that makes light, in speech like when he said ‘he is one bad mutha effer’ it was not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good--(like foot, like hair, like skin)--then the skin that looks up to the moon, as full as a record, reflects the light that shines off the sun that we call the biggest star in the soup, and we see it down here in Fear, where the people, if they are people and not spoons, bob their heads to the light that shines from two mouths and is black.  _

_ The light from their mouths is black. _

_ \--Astronomy (8th Light) / Michael Cirelli _

 

_ There was a time when hip-hop felt like a secret/ society of wizards and wordsmiths, magicians/ meant to find you or that you were meant to find/ like rappers i listened and memorized in history/ class talked specifically to me, for me./ & sometimes/ you’d see a kid whisper to himself/ in the corner of a bus seat & you/ asked if he rhymed & traded a poem/ a verse like a fur pelt trapping./ some gold or food. this sustenance./ you didn’t have to ride solo anymore. _

_ \--molemen beat tapes / Kevin Coval _

 

_ i look into the noise        mouth paper thin _

_ my tongue       a scatter of forgotten belongings _

_ extinguishes the heat of home _

_ \--upon viewing the death of basquiat* / Mahogany L. Browne _

 

_ Because you introduced me to Wu Tang/ kung fu flicks, 5 Fingers of Death/ & 36 Chambers/ over quarter candy & sweet peach Faygo/ pop on a playground bench/ Because you held my hand/ as I cranked the boom box volume knob./... Because I nodded to your chest’s thump/ under a rocket’s trail of smoke/ strong enough to trace every porch/ couch, box spring & classroom in Kzoo./ Your cherry gloss lingered around/ each Old E bottle I downed./ Because I studied you in college./  _

_ I want you to sound so bad./  _

_ Because you are mine./ Because I refuse to share/ let’s say you’re an overwhelming/ total body high./  _

_ Because your mouth/ is the nectar & squish of a peach./ Because your lips are the color of a flowering quince./  _

_ Your ghost rode your banana seat/ bike through my yard. Miss Bonita,/ I caught your bug & couldn’t kick it. _

_ \--Bonita Applebum / Marcus Wicker _

Jared doesn’t understand all of the Bronx. 

He’s not upset about it.


	29. Chapter 29

A week later, Jared visits Jensen.

He owns a house. Small, but comfortable, and just enough room to accommodate a variety of instruments, at least five bookcases, and gatherings from residents who want to drop by for a spell or dinner parties. The exterior of the house, although white and gray, manages to look friendly and inviting. Across the wide, generously sized veranda, Jensen keeps hanging baskets filled with flowers. Lantanas serve as magnets for hummingbirds and butterflies, when the time is right. Jensen plants them in the spring and favors their low-maintenance care. Two planters are completely covered in lobelias: a rich, indigo color, not exactly a flower but an annual herb. He keeps these closer to the sun and out of the shade. Then of course, there are geraniums, portulacas, begonias, black eyed susan vine, million bells, and petunias. He names them off, one by one, with all the persuasive, holistic sound of bandstand working together for decades.

They don’t spend much time inside, at first. 

An amber gradient of stone leads from the front of the house to the back. Trellises line the sides, covered in vines that manage to look as poised as an experienced model on a cover shoot. The terrain varies, some patches of grass blend smooth, others stick out for attention and touch. Jared purposefully loses his Gucci boots in favor of doing as the Romans do: walk completely barefoot.

This could be a little gospel groove. A little righteous saxophone. A classic.

In the center of the backyard rests a fountain, similar to the one in town square, The bricks are from old buildings, demolished giants from New York City. Jensen had them hauled over after his first full year on the island. 

Orchids from Thailand contentedly grow towards the sun. 

It’s like pre-war Count Basie, Coltrane from the mid 1960’s, Madonna’s Greatest Hits, and Adele grown into the earth, cared for, and blossomed into something that evades concrete description. 

Sprinkled across a glass table near the back door are glittering pieces to a mosaic. A portion of it looks ready to be assembled. Jensen explains that this one is the third in a series. Mrs. Durand introduced him to it, and she’s ready to show him how to blow glass whenever he has the time. With the village leader being on vacation--ironically gone to the States the same week Jared arrived--he hasn’t had much of an opportunity to work back here. 

“Mr. Yeun drops by, when he can.” Jensen unravels a length of garden hose and turns on the water for it. “But you know, this place is almost a full-time job.”

Fish lazily swim around in the fountain, unaware of the work in progress around them.

Jared takes the hose and waters for Jensen. He doesn’t exactly know the method or system Jensen uses, but it’s a start. 

“Why’d you stay gone from New York?”

“Why not?”

“It’s not like here,” Jared admits, “but you know… the places to see. Things to do.” 

“Let me ask you something: why’d you make that album?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why’d you make it?”

“I… I wanted to.”

“Yeah, but why  _ that _ album? It doesn’t cover your vocal range, not by half. It limits you and the listener. You voice overpowers the background vocals and music, or, worse, the tempo overpowers your voice. Instead of building something to last, you went for what was in demand.You accommodated your talent for catchy, superficial shit.  Why?”

New York shines through when Jensen gets frustrated. 

Jared moves away, intent on watering more of the garden. Jensen follows. He doesn’t crowd, he doesn’t press, but he does insist on an answer. 

“Because I didn’t listen,” Jared replies, his tone firm. “Because I forgot what music is all about, okay?”

“And what is that?”

She didn’t send him to Cabana boys, beachside resorts, boutique shops, or room service. She sent him to Jensen and this place filled with rhythmic cohesion. 

Taking a deep breath, Jared arranges his words before answering. 

“Listening. It’s about the power of listening.” 

He could go on. He could detail how central the power of the ear is, how music must be felt, how listening is the path to the heart of music, how it unlocks creative potential and allows anyone, regardless of ability, to grasp music at its most essential level. How musicians as well as their audiences must listen and listen deeply. 

But he doesn’t--because he doesn’t have to.

They lock eyes for a moment, each of them serious in their own way. Jensen smiles first. He shakes his head and stands next to Jared, then gently takes back the hose. 

“Let me show you how to do that,” he says, and turns their attention to a section of thriving azaleas.


	30. Chapter 30

Three days later, inside Jensen’s home, Jared takes a shower in an actual bathroom. 

He washes himself with a bar of almond soap, which leaves him smelling like the almond cookies. 

“Almond cookies and come. That’s what I smell like,” he declares, walking into Jensen’s room, naked, still drying his hair. 

“I think you’re onto something.” Jensen chose to stay behind, remaining in bed, dozing off after their activities. Jared wrote and fine-tuned a song this morning, working at Jensen’s kitchen table, while Jensen made rounds in the village. The afternoon has proven generous, with Dali and Div taking the kids on a hike to give Jensen a brief reprieve. “We can make a whole new soap.”

Flopping onto the cool, ample bed, Jared tangles his legs with Jensen’s. “You still reek. I don’t know who’d buy that soap.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me fuck you again. Let’s see if I smell any better.”

Jared decides that this is a good enough time to show Jensen his lack of any gag reflex.


	31. Chapter 31

Two days later, Mrs. Park watches Jared stare at the public phone. 

Percy grooms himself, but occasionally also glances Jared’s way. The shop was busy earlier, so Jared walked around the fountain, contemplating exactly what he’d say and how he’d say it and to whom. 

Jared extends his hand out towards the receiver. Yes. This is it. Pick it up. Dial. There's about two and a half weeks left until the deadline. Just let Lindy know the basics: he’s doing well, he’s been getting sun without burning, which is great because burning does awful things to his skin, and he has finally figured out how to turn on the shower at the cottage without assistance from Jensen. Though. Jensen’s  _ ass _ istance makes things more fun. 

“I can’t do it!” Jared throws his hands up, then hides his face from onlookers. “I haven’t worked on the album at all and I’m not even sure I want to go back but I want to go back because I miss my apartment and I had a ton of stuff on my DVR that I wanted to watch and… and… I was doing so well for H&M, but I am  _ not  _ a size twenty-eight and I caved yesterday and had Ma let out all my shorts and I can’t even feel bad about that because the man I’m sleeping with makes me feel good about myself in ways there’s just no words for, but holy crap do I miss New York or do I just miss my stuff? And what about Jensen? And Diego? And Div and Dali and Ma and Mr. Yeun…” 

Lindy’s voice breaks through long-distance static.

“Jared! Breathe! My god, you’re rambling worse than one of the Trumps.”

Oh. Shit.

“Exactly how many people are you sleeping with out there?” Lindy snips. “And if you’re  _ not _ working on the album, what  _ are _ you doing? And I cannot believe you would allow anyone to let out your wardrobe. This is not even the surface of what you’ve said, but one disaster at a time, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” Jared exhales and leans against the wall. He faces away from Mrs. Park and Percy. “I’m just… a little overwhelmed.”

“By what? What could you possibly be overwhelmed by? You’re on a remote island for Gucci’s sake.”

“There’s still life here, Lindy,” Jared mutters. “And there’s still my life back in Manhattan.”

“And it’s about time you remember it. Why aren’t you working on the album? By the way, not that it seems to matter to you since you left, but CR Arnold got in contact with me--you’re welcome--and he’s agreed to produce the album as-is, without any changes to it except the marketing.”

Jared spend last night at Jensen’s. He showered this morning, to enjoy the indoor shower, but he didn’t use any soap. Even with the scent of sweat from walking over to Mrs. Park’s, helping her unload a small shipment of product, and ambling around the fountain for half an hour, he can still pick up traces of Jensen. They’re supposed to meet in an hour to have lunch with Mr. Yeun and Dali, possibly Div too, if she can escape Ma for a little while. Jared’s stomach growls, demanding to be fed. Mr. Yeun might have mackerel again, but then Jensen mentioned curry…

“Wait.” Snapping back to reality, Jared stands up straight. “I don’t want to work with CR. You saw what he did to Ben’s album last year.”

“Jared, be serious. CR will get it out there. And who cares about Ben? This is business. CR’s albums sell.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“I’ll let you tell it. But I’m not working with CR.”

“Do you know how many favors went in for just a phone call with him? Jared! Are you having a heat stroke or something?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Well don’t let your vacation ruin your career.”

“This isn’t vacation. Nothing about this has been a vacation.”

Lindy huffs and sighs. “Screwing someone on a remote island doesn’t count as working. Look--if you don’t want to throw away a year of work, time, and effort then you need to contact CR and his people. Think about it before you say no. Think about all the shit we put up with to get here. You’re not going to throw it away just like that.”

Jensen appears in Jared’s periphery. With a wave to Jared, he hangs out by the storefront with Mrs. Park. He’s early. And sweaty. And the top four buttons on his shirt are left free of all worldly restraints, allowing for a sumptuous, sensual glimpse of his chest. And he hasn’t shaved for the past few days, which has given Jared a preview of a slightly ginger beard...

“Lindy?”

“What.”

“I will talk to you later.”

Jared hangs up.

 

“So… what was that about?”

“Ugh. Just. Fuckery.”

“Very detailed response.”

“Whatever.”

“No, really. A+, would listen to it again if I need relevant information.”

“Are you ever not confident?”

“Fuck no.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“...”

“I’m also fat.”

“That’s not…”

“Ah, ah. You asked. Well, indirectly. But yeah, I’ve been insecure before, of course I have. You don’t live in this world as a fat person without some insecurity. No one lives without some insecurity.”

“You don’t come off that way.”

“Not now. Maybe, if you’d met me ten years ago, yeah.”

“Oh my god, how old are you?”

“Nice time to be asking this, you already slept with me.”

“You’re not like… a bajillion years old, are you?”

“A bajillion and one.”

“Great response.”

“Hey, I’m learning from the best.”

Jared shoots Jensen a smile. “Yeah, you are.” As they exit Mrs. Park’s, he elbows Jensen in the shoulder. “How’d you do that, anyway?”

Jensen waves to Mrs. Durand across the square. “Do what?”

They walk out to Jensen’s Jeep, a bottle of chilled red wine sweating in the footwell of the front passenger’s seat. Dali promised to make sangria if Jensen supplied the wine. Jared stops, two steps from the Jeep, and squints through the midday sun. 

“How’d you take all of that and make me feel better?”

Leaning in, Jensen pecks a kiss against Jared’s equally sweaty cheek. “It’s a secret.” 


	32. Chapter 32

Mr. Yeun makes a South Korean dish called samgyeopsal. 

Served with lettuce, perilla leaves, sliced onions, and homemade garlic kimchi, Samgyeopsal involves sizzling strips of pork grilled to perfection. The soybean paste, doenjang, and chili paste, gochujang, add an exceptional level of flavor and bite. Dali and Mr. Yeun teach Jared how to ask for one more serving, please, in Korean. His attempts fail despite knowing a smattering of French, Italian, and Spanish. Still, his mangling of Korean provides ample laughter to an already cheerful lunch. 

Samgyeopsal restaurants exist in abundance in Korea. They are places known for their party atmosphere, where shots of soju flow at the mere cry of, “More please!” Mr. Yeun’s favorite restaurant in Hongdae serves samgyeopsal twenty four hours a day. It’s meant to be a meal shared with others in happiness.

Sad samgyeopsal does not exist.

Likewise, samgyeopsal is never served without soju--rice liquor with a higher potency than sake. To Jared, sake tastes more like wine; soju goes down like vodka. Unlike their experience drinking sake on the front porch, Mr. Yeun caps everyone off at three shots. Everyone leaves slightly buzzed, plenty full, and excited about their containers packed with leftovers. 

Jensen drops Dali off at Div’s, so the leftovers have a chance at actually reaching Div. A few cousins linger outside of the house, smoking and playing dominoes. They look up, wave to Jensen, and go back to their game--until they notice what Dali has in her hands. It doesn’t look like a very fair fight to start: there are three cousins and one of the neighborhood dogs who is also in on the scheme, and only one Dali. Holding the bag of leftovers in her right hand, Dali walks up to the house, calm, unaffected.

She holds up her left hand and points at the oldest cousin--directly into his soul.

“Tritur a lazza,” she says, her voice absolutely unshakeable. 

The cousins back down, though they quietly whisper amongst themselves, sad expressions on all their faces. Dali waves to Jared and Jensen from the doorway and disappears inside. 

Jensen laughs and puts the Jeep into drive. 

“What’d she say?” If there’s a magical set of words to make people shut up and go away, Jared wants to know them. Know them and tattoo them on his heart.

Glancing over, Jensen smiles. “Go jump in a lake.” 

“I beg your pardon?!”

“No!” Jensen speeds up. His voice carries over the roar of the engine. “That’s literally what she said!”

“That’s it?!”

“That’s all she needed!”

Jared holds onto the door and seat belt for dear life. He’s gotten used to Jensen coming inside him, but he has failed to acclimate to Jensen’s driving. “But… how?!”

Dreamy porch and street lights cast warm shapes against the houses they drive past. The Jeep propels through the lingering humidity, insistent on reaching its destination. Leaves and small branches crackle underneath the Jeep’s wheels. Soon enough, small residential clusters of houses and patios and long driveways give way to the main road. Every light on the island shines brighter than any LED light in Manhattan. There are no billboards, no giant screens, hell, there aren’t even traffic lights. Someone tied a string of candles between two posts outside one entrance to the center of town. They might be wax in mason jars, but they flicker brilliantly against the stone and brick backdrop.

Despite its momentum, the Jeep comes to a gradual, gentle stop in front of Town Hall. 

Jensen cuts the engine and unbuckles his seat belt. Only after that, does he say, “You gotta be proud of the space you take up. That’s all.” 

With a thousand eye rolls implied in his voice, Jared sighs, “Right, like that’s so easy.”

“Just try it.”

“You’re sounding a little Dr. Phil.”

“I can give you fifty insights to my soul if you want, you just hafta ask.”

“Oh no thank you.”

“Figures. What a quitter.”

“I wish you’d quit your sass.”

“Ain’t no sass, just the truth.”

“Uh huh. The truth my ass.”

“Hey.” Jensen nudges Jared’s cheek. “Don’t speak ill about my friend.”

“Go jump in a lake!” Jared swats Jensen’s hand away and pokes him in the shoulder. “What are we doing here, anyway?” 

“Practice.”

“This late?”

“It’s not even seven, Jared.”

“But I just ate.”

“Jared.”

“What?”

“Get that ass out of the damn Jeep.”

Miracles never cease: Jared gets out of the damn Jeep without a single complaint, snarky comment, or protest. He follows Jensen into the building, empty as usual, and hangs back to watch Jensen set up his plans. Well, what he really watches is the way Jensen’s muscles in his arms flex as he single handedly pulls the piano and its bench out further away from the wall. This  _ does _ things to Jared. He may not have any idea what Jensen has planned, but he’s not about to complain. 

The piano was Jared’s first instrument. He practiced with Nana and his Auntie until he was six. The trio of women around him decided that he showed enough interest and talent to have weekly lessons. By his eighth birthday, Jared met with a piano teacher, a musicology teacher, a voice teacher, and practiced violin on the side. Everything related to music was easily accessible thanks to his Aunt and his mother, who allowed him to visit her compound in Los Angeles often. Jared didn’t grow up with Chaz or Elijah, since they were older, but he remembers summer vacations where they’d be around more often. They would host their friends at the poolside while Jared holed himself up in one of the many music rooms on the second floor. 

Watching Jensen tune the Yamaha grand, Jared thinks back to the time he received an impromptu piano lesson from Elton John. He must have been seven at the time. What stuck out to him the most was the accent, the glasses, and the way he said, “Very good.”

As Jared began finetuning his voice--after puberty, that had been interesting--his Aunt hired more professional voice coaches and teachers. His interest was no longer seen as a hobby. And while he chose not to attend a music school, he practiced voice and piano every single day no matter where he was or how he felt. There were flus and colds and twisted ankles spent at the piano punching out Major, minor, Augmented, diminished, and seventh chords. He would extract chord inversions, symbols, and extended chords from his fingers until there was nothing left of him to give. 

On his sixteenth birthday, Sanders took him to a piano shop on the Upper East Side. It was Faust Harrison Pianos, on 58th, and one of Sanders’ favorite places in all of New York City, because according to him, it was one of the only places a black man could buy a ten thousand dollar grand piano without playing twenty questions. 

Sanders and his friend Howard spent the afternoon showing Jared how to disassemble and reassemble a grand piano. They let him try on a Baldwin--putting together the frame, case, and soundboard. Both men took turns explaining each part. The tension in a concert grand comes close to thirty tons. Every decent piano should have a soundboard made from Sitka spruce, at least ⅜” thick with just amount of stiffness and flexibility to amplify the sound of the vibrating strings. Soundboards should have an excellent bow to them, ensuring a more vibrant sound and to keep it from crumbling under the pressure of the strings. There are over two hundred strings in a piano; each treble note claims three, the upper bass two, and lower bass notes receive only one. Each piece serves a purpose, from the pedals to the case to the bridge to the pinblock, and Faust Harrison, Sanders and Harrison both agreed, sold the best pianos made from the best materials.

Walking over to the Yamaha, Jared touches the middle C note, fingers barely brushing against it. 

At almost every lesson, Sanders would bring his turntable. On first glance, it didn’t look much different from any other turntable, much less like one a distinguished music teacher would carry around. It was robin’s egg blue, compact for travel, with built-in speakers, and slightly dented. 

The sound wasn’t the greatest--tinny, filled with static, and it amplified any imperfection on a record.

But there it was, a constant in Jared’s musical education, all because of one special feature: the ability to play records at 17 rpm. The vast majority of turntables only allow for playback at 33 rpm or 45 rpm. At the 17 rpm setting, songs slowed down, leaving the pitch, timbre, phrasing, and basic composition exposed for dissection. Any sense of being overwhelmed was held at bay by playing records at half speed. Everything from Mozart to Charlie Parker to TLC landed on Sanders’ magical turntable. 

And when the turntable practice was finished, Sanders would follow a rule passed down from Sidney Bechet: practice one note and one note only today.

Just one? Jared thought it would be impossible. Boring. Tedious. 

Sanders was there to prove him wrong, yet again.

Middle C note was where Jared started on their first single note lesson. Play it fast. Light. Slow. Dirty. Mean. Sad. Gritty. Ebullient. Despondent. Fucking crazy as the man selling elotes on the corner of 81st and 79th right near the American Museum of Natural History on a sweltering day in the middle of July. 

“Artists make use of what they have,” Jensen murmurs, wiping sweat from his forehead. “And make the most out of it.” He sits on the bench and immediately positions his hands over half the keys. 

The playful strike of B flat invites Jared to take a seat. 

There are four components to making excellent music. Rhythmic cohesion, the paradoxical cooperation between instruments and vocals, creates the pulse. Expert bands blend together individual personalities in a relentless give and take process, alive and potent. Phrasing, right after, allows for musicians and the band to demonstrate their painstaking practice. The way a musician shapes their phrases reveals their personality, on and off stage. It’s not a matter of loudness, but personal agency. Is their flexibility? Confidence? Independence? Does the musician truly play the song, or allow it to play them?

Pitch and timbre follow, highlighting not just the notes, but what each musician chooses to do with them. 

And then, dynamics--variations in volume of a note or phrase. 

Jensen establishes the very basics: B flat, B flat A, B flat G, F, B flat, F A. His touch stays soft, deceptively easy, and his fingers access each key with complete assurance. Despite the seeming lack of force, the Yamaha responds sweetly, honeyed and clear. Without stagelight, in front of only an audience of one, Jensen commands the entire hall as naturally as every breath drawn.

How can Jared jump in? 

What if their styles clash? 

What if he doesn’t understand the song? 

Musicians of any genre cannot afford boring. The phrases become more complex. Jensen extends past Middle C, reaching past Jared. There would be drums right here, in the background, with a saxophone to accompany and occasionally dip into a solo. But where there is not, Jensen creates. The authoritative movement of his fingers, hands, arms, and shoulders showcases his intimate understanding of this particular piece. 

It only seems right for him to add words.

Deep. Slow. Grainy. Textured, yet smooth. 

“Be Good is her name, and I sing my lion’s song and brush my mane.” Rumbling vocalization pairs with full, rich tone. “She would, if she could, so she pulled my lion’s tail and caused me pain.” 

The rhythm seamlessly manifests itself--uncompromisingly passionate and pained. At the right moment, with a combination of notes where absolutely no others would have fit, he elevates the pitch and timbre of both the piano and his voice. 

“She said lions are made for cages just to look at in delight. You dare not let ‘em walk around, ‘cause they might just bite.” 

Drawing back on a dime, Jensen molds the notes to reflect the hushed grief in his voice. “Does she know? What she does, when she dances ‘round my cage and says her name? Be good. Be good. Be good is her name. I trim my lion’s claws and I, and I cut my mane. And I would, if I could, but that woman treats me the same.”

This would be the saxophone solo. Bright with hurt and the sting of memory. Jensen shifts, back past the Middle C. One. One. One, two, three…

Jared jumps in. 

It isn’t perfect. It doesn’t sound like top notch bands playing in sync with each other for years and years. It doesn’t even sound like  _ him _ . Spontaneity grips his phrases, which trot out in unfamiliar asymmetry. He’ll never replicated this. Ever. This arrangement of notes will never exist as they are right here, right now, as he plays beside Jensen.

“Be good, is her name. I sing my lion’s song, brush my mane. And she would, if she could. So she pulled my lion’s tail…” Jensen’s voice rises over their playing, adding something visceral, open, and raw. His pitch dips, intriguing and broad in its range. “...and caused me pain.” On a dime yet again, he increases their volume, tightening the emotional impact, breathing from his diaphragm for the full intensity of his voice to hit. “She said lions are made for cages just to look at in delight. You dare not let ‘em walk around ‘cause they might just bite.” 

Jared plays lighter phrases. He provides contrast, filling in for the saxophone, and skillfully picks at that pain. It builds a bridge for Jensen’s voice to lower once more. Gradually, their playing matches, volume soft and muted, contemplative, but with no less edge.

“Does she know what she does?” Jensen lifts his hands from the keys and rests them on the bench. “When she dances around my cage? Does she know?” 

None of these elements of music are new to Jared. 

He just hasn’t made use of them.

His hands stretch out on the piano, taking place, carrying the tempo. He includes a few phrases of his own, blending the beginning and ends of bar lines, free with no noticeable limitations. Complex. Simple. Complex. Simple. 

This isn’t about producing.

It’s about intent.

Jensen’s voice pairs with Jared’s playing as the song winds down. “Does she know? Be good. Be good. Be good. Mmm.” 

The last notes. 

And the press of lips to Jared’s cheek discover tears.

So Jensen places an arm around Jared’s shoulders. 


	33. Chapter 33

No one, not even Jensen, sees Jared for the next two days. 

 

_ How can I tell you/  _

_ in this moment/ _

_ that I want to taste the essence that is  _ _ you _ _?/  _

_ How you embody / _

_ all the universal  _ **_force_ ** _ / _

_ that leaves me  _ _ trembling  _ _ at your  _ _ feet _ _?/  _

_ And if I came across a time/  _

_ when I might  _ _ lose  _ _ you,/  _

_ I’d  _ **_surrender_ ** _./  _

_ I would toss my broken heart/  _

_ into the ocean,/  _

_ open  _ _ water  _ _ and the  _ **_dark_ ** _./  _

_ Your connection  _ _ killing me _ _./  _

_ [Break. Guitar.] _

_ Am I insane the way / _

_ I yearn to taste the  _ **_bittersweet_ ** _ complexion of your lips?/  _

_ And  _ **_quench_ ** _ my hunger with your wine as / _

_ red as  _ **_blood_ ** _ /  _

_ that surges constant through my  _ _ veins _ _?/  _

_ I am  _ **_alive_ ** _. I am  _ **_alone_ ** _. And I am  _ **_grieving_ ** _./  _

_ Never ending. Burning for your dark temptation./  _

_ Your  _ _ aroma _ _. Your sensation. Your  _ _ convictions _ _ / _

_ like  _ _ blood  _ _ turning  _ _ water _ _ into  _ **_wine_ ** _./  _

_ [saxophone solo, guitar support]  _

_ Am I insane the way I yearn to taste the bittersweet complexion of your lips?/  _

_ I am  _ **_alive_ ** _. I am  _ **_alone_ ** _. And I am  _ **_grieving_ ** _./  _

_ Never ending./  _

_ Searching for your  _ **_dark_ ** _ temptation, your  _ **_aroma_ ** _ , your  _ **_sensation_ ** _./  _

_ Your convictions/  _

_ like blood turning  _ _ water  _ _ into  _ **_wine_ ** _./  _

**_Oh_ ** _ ,  _ _ my love _ _. _

 

At two in the morning on the second day, what stares back at him is new.

Music thunders in every fleeing, sprinting step on the three and a half mile run over recently patched road.


	34. Chapter 34

Jensen chose a house near the center of town before he became the assistant village leader. His selection was primarily, back then, based on Cher’s recommendation. She wanted him to socialize. Let people get to know him. There was no point in moving halfway across the world if he was going to spend it in isolation, getting more jaded and bitter by the day. 

His first idea was to head to Texas. Bailing New York City was tough, so why not head to the conservative South and try his luck there again? After all, he’d been born and raised just outside of Dallas. He was enough of a Texan to have the drawl and know which barbeque places were the best and which ones weren’t worth the wait. But he missed his flight. And the cabbie got his address wrong on the way back from the airport so they ended up somewhere in Brooklyn. Instead of going to a hotel, Jensen wandered back to Intime. 

Dispatching for the NYPD was a shit job with almost shit pay. So in his downtime, rare as it was, he played in a few clubs. Nothing professional, not to him at least. He didn’t need a set, either, just time and a place. It helped take him out of his head after work.

One of his first phone calls was from a woman whose two year old drank an entire bottle of hand sanitizer. Anything and everything that could go wrong, did. He took calls from people complaining about their neighbors having sex, from people who just got mugged, to people who had no one else to turn to and were about to utilize the gun they bought from a pawn shop. These were twelve hour shifts. Five days a week. Six or seven sometimes, especially whenever the FBI had to get involved. Multiple screens displayed batches of information--driver’s license numbers, locations, officers’ locations, the weather, VINs, logs, and warrants. 

Sometimes, people called for the stupidest shit. The last call he took wasn’t some teenager pulling a prank or some asshole who locked himself out of his car. 

A six year old girl called. She dropped the phone twice in the five minutes she was on the phone. 

It was the first call Jensen ever had to pass to his superior. Children were different. 

He walked out and called Cher. 

It was Texas or the island. 


	35. Chapter 35

It is essential for painters to learn to separate effort from accomplishment.

The same goes for musicians, no matter how educated, talented, or pigheaded. 

“I am not pigheaded,” Jared grumbles into Jensen’s chest. 

Their bodies settle against each other despite the spacious room afforded by Jensen’s bed. Time has slipped away from them and they are cool. Sunrise seems to bob at the window, honeyed and earnest, but the aqua blue alarm clock on the nightstand proves that the sun is actually setting. Jared has seen both versions of the sun from this location--right here, in this space and lighting.

Every piece of music exists as a translation.

“Don’t start,” Jensen murmurs, then looks to his right, towards the bay window in his bedroom. He set the painting there a few hours ago. “You think it’s dry yet?”

“Does paint dry faster than come?” 

“...you know, I’m not sure.”

“Well,  _ I’m _ definitely not dry yet.”

“That’s your own fault.”

“Mm.”

“Happy?”

“...yeah.”

“Hungry?”

“How’d you know?”

“Someone’s tummy is grumbling.”

“It doesn’t grumble. It eloquently demands that you make it dinner.”

“You know, some of us worked yesterday.”

“I know. I did.”

“Uh huh.”

“I did! I wrote a song.”

“You didn’t finish it.”

“No, but…”

“What’s Naman Kemper gonna say when he finds out you’d rather distract me from my work instead of finishing your own?”

Jared goes from bonelessly relaxed to sale at Brooks Brothers tense in zero to two seconds. He sits up, uncaring that his ass and thighs and legs--and toes?!--are still slick with the aftermath of spending the whole day in bed with Jensen. His hair is also a mess, but, “Wait!” Jared blurts out. “You mean… N.K.?” 

Wincing, Jensen moves Jared over an inch. “Watch those elbows, like knives they are.”

“Jensen.”

“Oh good, you can say my name without screaming it.”

“...!” 

“Yes,” he replies, rolling his eyes and also rolling over onto his stomach. Jared doesn’t allow Jensen to escape that easily; he perches himself smack dab on top of Jensen’s ass. The mattress creaks with their movements, sounding similar to how it did just an hour ago. “Euw. You’re all sticky.”

“I’m gonna send Red Chicken after you if you don’t tell me why you brought up N.K.”

Speaking into his pillow, Jensen rumbles, “I’m not afraid of you or Red Chicken.”

Distractions occur when Jensen slightly shifts his hips and Jared intimately feels the effects. He steals a moment to run his hands over the broad, freckled expanse of Jensen’s back. Very easily, in a quiet, calm way, this motion could lead to something else. It could lead to a repeat of this morning, when Jared woke up and received a blow job until he was in tears from the things Jensen can do with his tongue and those damn lips. Or it could lead to a repeat of early this afternoon, when Jared rode Jensen hard enough to create concerns for the longevity of the mattress. 

“Jared.”

“Huh?”

“If you’re fixin’ to start somethin’, it’s not happening until after dinner.”

“Why not?”

“You’re such a pain.”

“In your butt?” Jared pokes Jensen’s ass. 

Jensen snorts and lazily attempts to toss Jared off. “No, that’s  _ your _ butt you’re thinkin’ about.”

“Yeah…” On that note, Jared seizes the opportunity to squeeze Jensen’s upper arms. Wait. Note. Note. Music. They were talking about something to do with music… “Hey! So why did you bring up N.K.? And how do you know his full name? And when were you gonna tell me you know how to paint?” 

It’s a little late to bring up the painting part, but he might as well bother Jensen to the fullest while he’s at it. 

“I can paint,” Jensen rattles off. “Mostly just landscapes though.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Hmm. Fit in your pants.”

“Please,” Jared huffs and swats at Jensen’s head. “Even  _ I  _ can’t do that now.”

“You look good.”

“Yeah? Well, so do you.”

“Why thank you.”

“Compliments are free.” Jared rolls over, flopping onto his back, still beside Jensen. “It’s fucking me that’ll cost you.”

Jensen turns over, onto his side, to face Jared. “How much you think I owe you up til now?” 

“At least a million dollars. But I’ll settle for no more hikes up the hill.”

“You’re not getting out of that. No way in hell.”

“Diego said I could stay home.”

“Uh huh.”

“He did.”

“I bet.”

They’ve done this thing.

This thing where they’re not really trying to  _ be _ close; it ends up happening anyway. Nose to nose, note to note, phrase to phrase, beat to beat. All of it imperfectly arranged in the most thrilling, excited composition. Jared listens. He jumps in when he feels the moment emerge out of the beat.

One soft kiss transforms into a ballad that asks an important question.

“Naman,” Jensen says, his lips on Jared’s, “is a good friend of mine.”

Jared inhales the answer. “Yeah?”

“Yep. So I gave him my highest endorsement for your work.”

“Really?”

“You need to send him something by tomorrow night.”

“What?! Tomor--oh my god. But I haven’t even finished that song…”

“And you promised to go on a hike with us tomorrow morning.”

“...no. That was my clone.”

Sitting up, Jensen shakes his head. “Red Chicken comes up with more plausible shit than that. Now. What am I making for dinner? Yakiniku? Salmon rice bowls? Chicken salad?”

Before he supplies an answer, Jared looks over at the painting by the window. Jensen started it a few days ago, at the cottage. The careful mixture of colors on canvas depict the wilderness surrounding the shower in the backyard. Dreamy, expressionistic, painted light dapples over broad strokes and the smallest details--even the washcloth hanging over one of the partitions finds adds to the captured moment. He brought it here last night, so they could sleep together and he could finish a few details.

Early this morning, he touched up a few strokes, standing naked in front of the canvas and Jared.

He declared it finished just a while after and slipped back into bed. 

Intuition is based on practice and experience. A strong start goes a long way for a successful finish. Something is different now than it was before. Something in the balance, contrast, variety, texture, line, shape and composition in the distribution of energy, time, and space. 

“Jared?”

“Hmm?” 

“Wear those shorts tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see tomorrow.”

“Can’t I just see now?”

“See what I mean by a real pain in the ass?” 

“I am a delight.”

“Get off my bed. You stink.”

“I do  _ not _ stink!” 

“Hmm. No, you do.”

“I have a very pleasant aroma, Jensen! Jensen? Quit ignoring me! Hey!” Jared struggles to get out of bed to chase after Jensen, who is already halfway down the hallway. “Your bed is too freaking high, every time I get up I feel like I’m climbing down from a tree.”

“Jared.”

“What?!”

“Go shower while I make dinner.”

“Oh.”

“Go.”

“Okay.”

“...”

“...thank you.”

A sequence starts in the tips of Jared’s fingers. AABBACCDD. It shifts in a split second to ABCDDCBA. There could be dialogue between the piano and the bass. A conversation between his voice and the symmetry of eight bars. 

Whatever this might be, it isn’t nearly finished yet.


	36. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised Epilogue!

“Lindy, breathe.”

“Breathe?! Jared, how can I possibly breathe when you have just thrown your career away?”

“Well, you might start by not talking for a second.”

“How can you joke around at a time like this? You are impossible. And completely misguided.”

“I am guided just fine. It was my decision, it’s still my album.”

“Oh, right, because clearly you were the only person working on it. Cute cease and desist letter you sent to CR. Thanks a lot.”

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

“Jared! I have worked my ass off to get you the right connections, to get the right people to listen to this album and now you’re telling me that you’ve decided to stay on some stupid island instead of releasing this?! You know you’ll never be able to make an album in New York again if you go through with this.”

“That’s funny.”

“Nothing about this is funny. At all.”

“Yeah, no, I think it is, because N.K. listened to some of the new stuff I’ve been working on and he wants exclusive producer rights.”

“...you’re making a huge mistake.”

“No, I don’t really think so, Lindy.”

“I don’t know why I let you go on vacation to the middle of nowhere.”

“This has hardly been a vacation. I hiked _six_ miles yesterday!”

“Well good for you, Jared. That’s so fucking great. I’m glad that you can feel happy about wasting everyone’s time, including your own, just because you get to skip around on some island getaway fucking someone you’ve literally just met.”

“Lindy.”

“What!”

“I’m done talking. I already called Cher.”

“And she’s on her way to knock some sense into you, right? Because lord knows I can’t do it.”

“Oh, just a second, Jensen wants me to pick out ice cream for tonight. ...hmm, no I hate coconut. Green tea is good.”

“Jared! Are you listening to me?!”

“Good lord, Lindy, it’s so unbecoming of you to shout. No, she’s not on her way here. There’s no need.”

“What about Fashion Week? Jared? You know I was getting close to a contract for you with Calvin.”

“It was one word.”

“What? What was one word?”

“Diego wasn’t feeling well, so we went for a hike with the kids. Not that I think it helped Diego much.”

“Who the hell is Diego.”

“The turtle, Lindy, duh. So we hiked up to the hill, right? And at the top, he started describing countermelodies and bridges and themes.”

“The turtle did?”

“No, Jensen!”

“I cannot believe this.”

“He slipped a note into my right back pocket.”

“Oh god.”

“Yep.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Lindy, I have to go.”

“I’ll call back. I’m not letting this go.”

“Uh, well, you see, my phone doesn’t work here, so I’m calling you from Mrs. Park’s shop. You can call, but Percy doesn’t like the phone ringing.”

“Jared!”

“Lindy. You of all people should know that I’d never sign with Calvin. And yes, I’m staying on this island for a little longer to finish what I started the way it needs to be done. And yes, I’m fucking Jensen while I do that, because, well, because. And my hair won’t stop curling because it’s so damn humid out here so I might get it cut, just a little, though I have to be careful Dali doesn’t give me a buzz cut. And yes, I miss New York. I miss my apartment, which by the way, I’m having the locks changed tomorrow so haul your cookies out of there. But you know what? Right after this man fucked me this morning, he just started naming streets. Neighborhoods. Restaurants. His favorite place to get pizza. It was just like New York City. It was like everything I was missing come back to me.”

“...”

“Goodbye, Lindy.”

 

 

Lois Bancroft Long wrote for _The New Yorker_.

Jensen wrote for Jared.

_Stay a while?_


	37. Soundtrack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your listening pleasure, all the songs incorporated into this fic.


End file.
